More Ghosts of LA
by makealist
Summary: Scenes that didn't make the cut. The LaFleurs' life after leaving the Island.
1. Chapter 1

**So, here are the parts that didn't make "Ghosts of LA." If you didn't read it, you should! (it's like my baby, not really: it doesn't throw tantrums or anything like that), but you don't really have to. I realize it's insanely long. Here's what you need to know: Sawyer and Juliet escaped the Island in the 70s, and lived out the rest of their lives in the 70s/80s/90s mainland. Jimmy here is their son, and he was born in 1980. He plays rec league hockey and is a high school biology teacher. In this story, he's in his mid-to-late 20s. He mostly takes after his mom. He has an older sister who mostly takes after their dad. That's about it. Oh, yeah, he and his sister have absolutely no clue about their parents' past. They think they are totally normal. Sounds kind of blah, but once you add in crazy time travel . . . it's fun!**

**OK, imagine this takes place in the Oceanic 6 time period, and in the weeks after Jack saw his dad in the hospital lobby (with the smoke detector going off and right before he and Kate got engaged). Basically, right when Jack was starting to go a little loopy. **

* * *

><p>It's the last game of the season, and it doesn't even matter. Jimmy's team is squarely in second place. They're playing the City Warriors, mostly cops and firefighters, a handful of paramedics. Those guys are stuck in fourth. This game doesn't matter. Everyone's taking it easy, going light on the checks, keeping their sticks low.<p>

Jimmy sees it happen from across the ice. Allen gets twisted around funny or something, loses his balance, and collides with the biggest guy on the other squad.

They're deep into the third period, and it's obvious the go-easy style of the current match chafes everyone: there's a collective "Ooooh!" from both teams, players on the ice and on the bench. Jimmy gets a little thrill of adrenaline release. This is a big part of what he loves about hockey, that thrill you get from crushing some guy into the boards, then whacking him across the face with a well-aimed elbow (as soon as the ref looks the other way, that is). It's part of the sport – totally legal, hell, practically expected - and Jimmy _loves_ it.

Allen drops to the ice like a sack of potatoes, and a few more guys whoop and holler. Season's winding down, only a few more minutes to get your licks in. Jimmy crosses the ice in three smooth glides. He's itching for a fight, and plans to take on the big goon who just took out Allen.

Except the goon's just standing there, staring down at Allen. "Hey, hey . . . hey guys?" There's panic in his voice.

Allen's not moving. "Hey! Hey, buddy!," the big goon yelps. Up close, he's not a big goon at all. He's tall and broad shouldered, but with a pug nose, and a ruddy, kind face. Jimmy pegs him as the kind of cop who'll let you off with a warning, or maybe the kind of firefighter who'll rescue an old lady's cat from a tree without complaint.

Pat, Jimmy's team captain, sinks to his knees at Allen's head. "Allen? Allen, come on man, can you hear me?"

"Hey, back up, back up. We're EMT," two guys from the other team skate into the thick knot of people crowded around Allen's head. "Don't touch him. Don't move him. We called 911."

* * *

><p>Jimmy feels like a caged animal, jumpy and irritable. Allen's been in surgery, what? Two hours? And no one's got the simple decency to come out and tell them what's going on. Jimmy stands up and starts pacing. He's here with five other guys from the team, two more from the City Warriors. Someone called Allen's parents, but they live in Vermont or Buffalo or Albany or something and aren't getting here anytime soon.<p>

Pat mentions Allen's girlfriend, but Jimmy reminds him they broke up back in the fall. Debate ensues on whether they should call her anyway. Jimmy complains, "Not like it'll do any good. She's not family either." That's why they won't tell them anything. They're concerned teammates. They're the ones who brought him in here, but they ain't family, so they ain't getting jack shit as far as updates. Allen could be dead for all they know.

One of the two guys from the other team is a cop. Pat asks him, "Can't you do something? Like compel them to tell us or something?"

The cop shrugs. "I wish I could, but this isn't really a legal thing. I could probably threaten them or something, but I could lose my badge if anyone ever found out."

Jimmy wants to scream. Can't _someone_ do _something_? He doesn't need every single detail. All he needs to know if Allen is going to live or be paralyzed or just fine. He needs to know _something_.

The Lakers game is playing on the waiting room TV. Jimmy calls his neighbor. They were going to get pizza and beer and watch the game.

Jimmy wonders if you can order a pizza up to this little holding pen. Wonders where he can get a beer. He's hungry, and unless he goes somewhere for pizza, he's stuck with the vending machine choices here. He slides a dollar into the candy machine for an Apollo Bar. There's a bar hanging on the edge of the coil. The last poor son of a bitch at this machine got his candy stuck. The coils spin, and the caught bar drops down. The one behind it follows. Two for the price of one! That's a good sign, right? He hands the extra off to Pat.

They wait longer. They wait and wait and wait.

The Lakers game is at the half when a doctor walks into the waiting room. The guy's in scrubs, paper booties, and a surgical cap. His mask hangs around his neck. He looks drained. He's unshaven, with deep, dark circles surrounding bloodshot eyes. He looks vaguely familiar.

He asks, "Is Mr. Cosgrove's family here?"

Jimmy can't get a read. Does he look like that because Allen's dead? Or crippled? Or does he always look like that? Or is it just three hours in surgery that makes him look blasted?

Pat stands and takes charge. He's the captain, for one thing. For another, his mom is some kind of big-shot doctor or something. Some kind of fancy-pants dermatologist, Jimmy thinks. Jimmy, on the other hand, has little use for doctors. They go to all this school, learn all this shit, and for what? He never went to a doctor who didn't already tell him what his mom already told him. They're useless. Or, maybe he still feels a little guilt for quitting pre-med.

Regardless, it's a good thing Pat's here to talk to the guy. He'll know what to say.

"His parents are coming in from Rochester, New York. I spoke with them an hour ago. They're on a plane out. We're his teammates. We brought him in. Could you please just tell us something?"

The doctor runs his hands over his head, removing his surgical cap as he does so. He sounds truly regretful when he says, "I'm sorry. It's regulation. We can't release information to anyone but family. You have contact information for them?"

Pat hands over their cell number. The doctor nods thanks and turns to leave.

That's it? _That's it?_ No one's gonna try to change his mind? No one's gonna try to get him to drop a hint? They've been stuck in this stinky (Jimmy suspects someone didn't take a post-game shower), airless, sterile waiting room for hours, and now they're just gonna _baa-aaa-aaa_ like good little sheep and let the good doctor boss them around? _Hell, no!_

The doctor's opening the door to leave, and Jimmy snarls at his retreating back, "That cell number ain't gonna do you no good, Doc. They're on a friggin' airplane." His teammates turn to look at him, and he's not sure if they're more surprised he's lost his temper (never happens) or that he's suddenly talking like he just fell off the turnip truck.

The doctor's caught off guard, too. He stops in his tracks, standing in the doorway, and his whole body tenses. He spins to face the room, and his eyes look a little wild, roaming over everyone waiting here. "Who said that?" he gasps. No one says anything, but a few of the guys glance Jimmy's way. The doctor says, very carefully and very slowly, "Who said that?"

_Shit_, Jimmy thinks. He didn't mean to go off like that. Certainly didn't mean to be disrespectful of the guy who may have just fixed Allen. Or may not have. Fuck if he knows, no one will tell him anything. But, yeah, better not be a chickenshit now.

"Uhm, that was me," he says, stepping forward.

The doctor crosses the room in two steps to stand face to face with him. Jimmy thought he was feeling a little nervous, but that's nothing compared to what he sees on this guy's face. The doc's color drains as he stares at Jimmy. He's looking him too close in the eyes, and it's weird and uncomfortable, and Jimmy really wishes he had his glasses on today, because this guy is too intense and staring too hard at him. All Jimmy can think to do is stay calm, be cool, don't give anything away (don't lose your temper again). He concentrates on keeping his face blank and still, immobile.

"You look like . . ." the doctor breathes, shaking his head, clenching his eyes shut, looking at Jimmy again. "Impossible."

Jimmy's calm façade falters a little bit as he starts stammering, "I . . . I . .. I didn't mean . . .I apologize. I just want to know something about my friend. Can you tell me about my friend?"

"Who are you?" the doctor asks again, but a little less intense.

"I . . .I'm . . . my name is Jimmy LaFleur, and I'm Allen's teammate."

The doctor wipes his hand over his face. He takes a deep breath and stares at the ceiling. He looks like he might cry. He's gonna cry? Oh, no, no, no, no. That must mean Allen's dead, right? What else could it be? Why else would he be on the verge of tears, for Christ's sake?

Jimmy feels his knees go weak. He tries desperately to think of something, _anything_, that could bring a grown man to tears. Jimmy himself cried after that time he had to visit his buddy Ken's little sister in the hospital (she had leukemia. All those sick kids). Rachel reported that she's pretty sure Dad cried when he went with her to _Titanic_. (She ran with that, blubbering "I'll never give up, Jack, never" every time she saw Dad for like months after, until, predictably, he blew his top at her.)

So Allen's dead maybe, crippled probably. Or else the doctor's been chilling out watching_ Field of Dreams_, blubbering over playing catch with the ghost of his dead father. 'Cause, yeah, those are definitely tears right there. _Allen's a cripple, just go ahead and say it, Doc. _

"We'll know more this time tomorrow," the doctor says. "I'm optimistic, though. I really am. I can't be much more specific, I hope you understand. He's young, he's strong. I think we all have reason to be very, very hopeful. We'll have him on the ice again before you know it." He nods once, decisively, and leaves.

Jimmy stands dumbfounded, but relieved. Pat claps him on the back, and Jimmy grins. He says to Pat, "That was really weird, right?"

Pat slaps him on the back again – harder this time. "Of course it was weird, you big idiot. Don't you know who that was?"

"Uhm . . ." He _did_ look familiar.

"It's the Oceanic 6 dude. The doctor? And what do you say? 'Durp, durp, durp, Allen's parents are on an airplane.' Didn't you notice that's when he freaked the fuck out? You think he wants to hear about _anyone's_ parents on an airplane?"

"Guess I shoulda kept my mouth shut," Jimmy concedes.

"Nah. Got him to tell us about Allen. Good work, Jimmy."

* * *

><p><strong>If you read the first story, you should know that the reason this never made it in is that it didn't fit. I'd written pretty much the whole JimmyJack encounter when I was like, "Wait. Wait. Wouldn't he have mentioned that to Kate? Or even thought about it? How it was weird he had these O6 encounters?" So, ZIPPPPPPPPPPP! This got deleted out of the story outline.**

**This isn't the "deleted" scene that got the most votes, it was just the one that was completely written (well, mostly, there's more in my head about Jimmy and Allen being friends and Allen even going out with Rachel a few times). So, there are others I have allllllmost ready to go and will post here soon. There's others that will actually require more work than just writing these author's notes to them. So, send a review if you're still reading. I realize this wrapped up two months ago, and if no one really cares or is still reading, I won't bother with it. But, there are a bunch ready to go regardless.**


	2. Chapter 2

**I have a whole bunch of little vignettes from 1981 (luckily, this got the most votes in the deleted scenes most wanted). These were supposed to be sprinkled in throughout and were meant to show them adjusting to/accepting their lives, and growing away from thinking it was so very weird. Also, despite all their angst over living in the past, what happened happened, could they or would they change things, living under assumed names and blah blah blah blah, the worst thing that ever happened to them is the sort of thing that could happen to **_**anyone**_**. In other words, despite the absolute weirdness of things, their lives turned out to be very, very normal.**

**Then, I decided to tell the last part of the year (i.e., the most dramatic bits) from Miles' POV, so those (we'll get to them later) got excised. And then I realized that made all the rest of it kind of irrelevant/redundant. So, the whole shebang got canned. Here's the start of it.**

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><p><strong>January 10<strong>

The kids were really good today. They had fun romping around with the big cardboard brick blocks they got for Christmas. Jimmy napped for two hours this afternoon. Rachel picked up her toys without being asked. They both went to bed with no fuss. It was a fun day. James thinks now may be the time to ask, especially since Juliet's over on the couch hiding behind the stock listings.

He cranks down the footrest on the recliner, sets his sock feet on the floor, and leans forward. "I wanna have another baby."

"Good luck with that," says Juliet, not missing a beat. Or maybe it's the stock listings talking – she doesn't peer out from behind them looking curious, or over the top of them looking stern. She doesn't even move them.

"I ain't kiddin'."

"Neither am I." No movement from behind the business section.

"Will ya at least look at me?"

She folds the top half of the paper over. She looks his way, not curious, not stern. She looks expectant. Heh. Heheheh. He laughs at his internal pun.

"What?" she wants to know.

"Nothin'. So, waddaya say?"

"If this is a fancy, roundabout way of saying you want to have an affair with a younger woman, then, no. No. Permission not granted."

He snorts. "I mean with you, Brainiac. Doncha think our kids are great? Ain't it kinda amazin' sometimes what it's like?"

She's still looking at him, now like he has two heads. "Yes. It is great, and it is amazing. And don't you think it's also amazing sometimes how little sleep we get? And how much money they cost? _Will _cost?"

"Watcha readin' the business pages for, then, Rockefeller?"

She ignores that question. Instead she notes, "I'm going to be forty."

"You ain't yet."

"Jimmy's not even a year old."

"Figured we'd better get a move on, given how, as you just reminded me, you're almost forty."

She shakes her head. "I can't believe I'm hearing this."

Yeah, yeah, it is pretty crazy. She's right. It's a lot of work. A lot of the time it's drudgery. It's shit and piss and vomit and . . . and when you're in the thick of it you just don't care, 'cause . . ."Thing is, I never knew it was possible – to love someone like that. I mean, you and me, that kinda took me by surprise and all and I guess I thought I knew then what it meant to really love someone, but it ain't even half of it. Them two?" He points to the ceiling, toward their bedrooms. "I can't even . . .Shit. I love 'em so much it hurts. And we got it in our capacity to do more of that, so why wouldn't we?"

He is not crazy. He's not. Even if she's looking at him like he's clinically insane. He is not. He gets all the practical reasons why they wouldn't, and says so, "I mean besides poop diapers and no sleep and three-minute dinners. Besides all that, why wouldn't we?"

She opens her mouth to argue, but her eyes soften a little bit. Or maybe he's just imagining. Still, though, time to press the issue. "Just think about it will ya? That's all I'm askin'. Think about it."

"All right, I'll think about it," she says before lifting the business pages back to her face, and hiding behind the wall of stock listings. He wonders if she's smiling or frowning behind there.

* * *

><p><strong>February 13<strong>

James is speed reading his way through _The Bourne Identity_. Wonders why it took so damn long for someone to make a movie outta this thing.

Juliet walks into the bedroom, climbs onto the foot of the bed, sits cross-legged there, next to the pile of unfolded laundry, waiting for his attention (Juliet and the pile of laundry, both). He finishes a page. "Yes?" he inquires.

"What you were talking about before . . . were you serious?"

He scratches the back of his head. Shit. Before? Before _when?_ What had he been talking about? He tries, "About just lettin' Jimmy wear Rachel's old snowsuit, and not gettin' a new one for him?"

She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. She looks slightly nervous, biting her lower lip, and so, no, snowsuits probably ain't it. He bites the inside of his cheek, searching his memory bank, running conversations of the last few days that could possibly elicit this nervous reaction from her. "Oh! About switchin' over to Ann Arbor PD? Shit, no, I wasn't serious."

She blows a raspberry. "Never mind. Forget it. It was a stupid idea."

OK, _now _he's intrigued. Except, she's already swinging her legs off the bed, getting ready to leave. He sits up, reaches out a hand to grab her wrist. "Now hold on just a minute. Sorry I can't read your mind like you want, but come on . . . give me a _little_ hint?"

"Last month."

Last month? Last MONTH? Jesus, Blondie, how the hell's I supposed to guess that? He stares dumbly, so she clarifies: "What you said about having another baby. Were you serious?"

"Uh, well . . . _yeah_." Except she just called it a stupid idea. And how did she not know he was serious? Had she not listened to his impassioned (only half-rehearsed) speech about how there ain't enough love in the world and etcetera and etcetera and etcetera? "Why?" he asks, cautiously.

Instead of answering, she informs him, "I just boxed up Jimmy's baby clothes and put them in the attic." He's one tomorrow, wearing mostly 18 and 24 month clothes.

"Oh. Yeah, OK. Sure," James offers. Hey, he knew it was a longshot to convince her to do this – pretty much dismissed it from his mind after her hide-behind-the-stock-listings non-reaction. And now? Baby clothes are in the attic. Newborn days are done. He sort of figured anyway.

"I cried most of the time I was folding them up," she's saying. "I, uh, I guess . . . it all happened so fast, don't you think?" She doesn't wait for him to respond. "When I was a little girl, I always imagined how I'd have this fabulous career, and great husband and kids. Then I actually got the career and the husband, and so what if he didn't want to have kids, you know, right?"

James won't answer that, because he keeps his mouth clamped tight anytime the subject of that asshole ex comes up.

"Anyway, that was OK, because who wants to have it all, really? It's too much work, and besides, my career was too important. But that was just a lie I was telling myself to pretend I was happy, and sometimes it feels like, just, BOOM! I woke up and turns out, I got all that I wanted, and it happened too fast for me to realize it." She pauses to see if he's keeping up.

James purses his lips and nods thoughtfully. He ain't entirely sure where this is headed. It's possible she's coming around to his point of view. Or, equally likely, maybe she's gettin' ready to remind him all the practical reasons havin' another kid ain't a great idea. All the non-practical reasons, too (like time travel, and messin' with the past, and what happened, happened). So, he ain't gonna mess anything up by sayin' anything stupid. Just nod thoughtfully. He's had practice – it's what he does when she thinks out loud about stocks.

The thoughtful nod must've sufficed, 'cause she goes on, "It's like I've been too obsessed over how weird it all is, instead of enjoying everything about it that's wonderful. And not weird. Most days are so normal, don't you think?"

Another thoughtful nod.

"I'm not sure I realized what was happening, or at least, I didn't enjoy it like I should . . . I . . .well, you know, Rachel . . . that was . . . not intentional," she euphemizes, "and Jimmy . . . God, that happened fast, and sometimes I feel like we did that because we felt we had to, you know? Not wanting her to be an only child and all. Don't you feel that way?"

Emphatic (but still thoughtful) nod. Still not quite sure what he's agreeing with here, but he's starting to get the drift. Still not sure enough to fuck it up by saying something idiotic like he's sure he would.

"I guess . . . I guess, I'd like to try because it's something we want. It's the last thing in the world we need." Then shyly, almost under her breath, "But it's something I want."

"Hot diggity dog!" he laughs. (This is the sort of idiotic thing he's spent the last few minutes trying not to say.)

She laughs at (with?) him. Tosses a piece of clothing from the laundry pile at him. It's a little blue PJ top with a triceratops on it.

He starts to pull his shirt over his head.

"What are you doing?"

"Thought we could get started."

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><p><strong>I'm thinking I meant to add more to this, because there were big spots where I'd written cryptic little notes like [CHECK TV LISTINGS HERE] or [DATE NIGHT?]. But hell if I know what that was going to be. They were going to watch TV? And go on a date? Uhm, OK. Just imagine it. <strong>

**So, as you see: redundant – coming to terms with and loving their weird time travel life. I think that was already abundantly clear. Hence, this didn't make the cut.**


	3. Chapter 3

**OK, Wow. Really not much to this one out of context, and there was context to add to it, but I'm not gonna. So.**

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><p><span>July 4<span>

"Claudia's coming later," Miles answers the question no one asked. "Here." He sets two six packs of Milwaukee's Best on the counter. Gross. He pulls three out of their plastic rings. He pops the top on one and takes a slug, followed by a lip-smacking "Ahhhhhh" and a loud belch. He hands the second to James who follows along.

Jimmy's hanging on Juliet's leg while she pulls the plate of raw burger patties out of the fridge, carefully trying to not upset the balance of corn cobs and watermelon slices, all on one leg, because Jimmy keeps tugging.

Miles chooses this point to offer the third beer to Juliet. _Gross, no._ She wrinkles her nose. They don't have to drink Dharma beer anymore, and _this_ is what they choose? What is _wrong_ with them? Not for the first (or last) time in her life, she wonders what sort of joke the universe was playing to land her with these two men.

All the grill-food-balancing and small-child-tugging and whining makes her miss James' curious look.

"Grill's ready? Put these on," she orders. Today's one of those days when she's kind of at the end of her rope. Why did they agree to have the security party here? It'll be fun, that's why. Not fun right now, though.

"Aye, aye, madam." He salutes.

Later, when the party's in full swing, James corners her in the kitchen. "Noticed ya didn't take one of Miles' beers."

"That stuff is disgusting. He can afford better, you know."

"Sure there ain't no more reason than that?"

What more reason does he need? Oh! "No. I told you it wouldn't necessarily be easy." (Half truth – she also hasn't been trying allllll that hard.)

"Come on," he wheedles. "Tell me the truth."

"I _am_ telling you the truth."

He smiles, full-on dimples. He hooks a finger around a belt loop on her shorts, pulls her closer. "You don't got nothin' to hide?"

She rolls her eyes. She picks a Bartles and Jaymes off the counter, twists off the cap, downs about half the bottle in one gulp. Egads. That stuff is as bad as the Beast. "Believe me now?"

He lets her go, looking slightly disappointed. Then he starts chuckling, staring at the wine cooler bottle. These are brand new, and everyone finds them the height of deliciousness. Several guests brought over four-packs, and now they've got a fridge full of them. He takes teh bottle from her, and looks at it thoughtfully. "Guess no one knows in about 15 years these'll be reserved solely for teenage girls who wanna get drunk." In 15 years, _they'll _have a teenage girl. WEIRD.

Or maybe two teenage girls. Or maybe not – Juliet's of two minds about this. Back in February, she was all for it, was all for it most of the spring.

Then came May. Never in her life could she have imagined that Former President Gerald R. Ford would have any remote teensy tiny possible impact on Juliet's family planning, but he did. There you have it. He came to visit campus, which meant extra security for the visit and extra shifts and planning in the weeks leading up to it. Which was stupid. There was only one Squeaky Fromme, and Juliet could tell anyone – for a _guaranteed_ fact – that Gerald Ford would still be alive in 2004. And all this extra time and all these extra shifts James was taking? Unnecessary. What happened, happened, and what happened was NOT Gerald Ford being assassinated at the University of Michigan in May 1981.

On top of that, Rachel chose that time to give up napping, and Jimmy had some nasty cold bug. The whole thing kind of sucked. No help from James, no afternoon break during naptime, Jimmy not sleeping through the night. So when her little monthly window of fertility opened up, oh dear, she came down with a few inconvenient headaches and a lame excuse about thinking she might've picked up Jimmy's bug, until the "danger zone" passed, and she was alllll better and ready for some nookie.

Then in June, they got a swingset installed in the backyard, and James would play out there with the kids all afternoon and most of the weekend, and he looked so happy. They looked so happy, all three of them shrieking laughter and romping around. On a few nights, he'd fall asleep with both of the kids on the couch, and it was all so lovely and sweet and amazing and she hoped, hoped, hoped that despite her age, this could work, and she was disappointed when it didn't.

Her disappointment has been tempered lately, though. Lucy, Juliet's favorite reference librarian at the business school library, has been absent a few days when Juliet's been in. When Lucy is there, she looks . . . _awful_, quite frankly. Juliet, worried, asked if she was OK. Lucy smiled and blushed, "I wasn't going to say anything . . ." Juliet held up a hand, understanding, smiling back, "Your secret is safe with me." But, God, she still looks green, and exhausted, and kind of miserable. Yuck. Juliet doesn't want that. God no, not with those two kids to look after.

So, that's where she is now, at this very moment. She is "anti" the "let's have another baby" plan, even though her mind sometimes changes on a dime anytime she sees Jimmy asleep on James' shoulder, or when she listens in to James telling Rachel a story.

Or right this very moment, when he's still got a finger hooked in her belt loop, pulling her closer, and those wine coolers may be nasty, but the alcohol's making her more than a little bit relaxed. She takes another big sip. Somehow it's not as disgusting as before. (When do those old men start advertising this stuff?) She melts into James, giggling into his neck.

He really wants this. She wants it for him. For herself, too.

"Maaaamaaaaa!" Jimmy interrupts from the door to the kitchen. He's on the verge of tears and has mustard in his hair. Explain again why she wants more of this?

James starts laughing at him, deep, hearty laughs. Jimmy starts giggling, too, soft, sweet, and innocent. Oh, yeah. That's why.

* * *

><p><strong>This is meant to set up part of the argument that is mentioned in Chapter 29 of the full story. The dialogue to that is written, so at the very least, that will go up at some point. I don't know if I'm going to write any of the "fill in" to the dialogue, but we'll see.<strong>

**Also! There was going to be much more about the party, with some fun/funny drunken shenanigans. Juliet was going to reminiscence about this very party during the boring July 4 party they had when they were empty-nesters (when Jimmy was in college). She didn't reminiscence about it, though, 'cause I never wrote it. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Veering a little from our 1981 sojourn. The rest of those 1981 chapters were written out of order, and I'm trying to decide whether to publish them out of order (i.e., if it's written, just go ahead and put it up). The next few bits from 1981 are half-written at best, so I may skip ahead and revisit those chapters later, or I may just finish those and publish them in order. I haven't decided how much work to put in. Anyway, we'll take a break from 1981.**

**This is Miles finding out about Jimmy and Kate dating. It got the second-most votes (after the 1981 chapters). I just didn't find a place to fit this in. Once I realized it wasn't going to fit, I left it be. If it had actually been part of the story, I may have toned down Miles' reaction just a little bit. It's kind of too much, here. Wouldn't have toned it down A LOT, of course . . . it IS Miles, but a little . . .**

* * *

><p>Miles digs into his plate of pecan pancakes. "Mmmmm," he murmurs through a mouthful of food.<p>

Juliet glances at James. _Tell him now? While his mouth's full?_ James grits his teeth, turns his attention to the serving bowl in his hands, and then spoons fresh fruit onto Miles' plate. Miles nods thanks. James looks at Juliet._ No, you go first. You start. _Miles, never blind, doesn't miss the shared looks.

"Brunch at the LaFleurs. Wow. Such an honor. So, what's the occasion, hmmm?"

Probably should just tell him now, but instead, James gets his hackles up. "Can't a coupl'a old folks have their best friend over for brunch sometime?"

"Well, they _can_, but they never do, so . . ."

Juliet inhales. She looks over to James. Gonna have to say it eventually. He closes his eyes and nods very slightly in agreement. She smiles at him.

Before they get a chance to say anything, Miles groans. "Oh. Stop right there. Stop right fucking there, I've seen this show before. You're pregnant, aren't you?"

Exasperated, Juliet says, "Oh, hell, Miles, give it a rest, would you? I'm sixty-six years old."

Miles forks up another huge bit of pancake. He chews a few times then notes, "Yeah, well, see, there's this gal I used to know – some kind of research scientist. Anyway, that was her specialty – getting chicks pregnant who otherwise wouldn't be able to, you know? Just thought maybe if you crossed paths with her, I dunno, you might decide to give it a go."

She's quite sure he's tweaking them – over their age, her past, their sex life, all of the above, you can never tell for sure with Miles. She won't take the bait, instead sitting still with her arms crossed. James, predictably, does rise to the bait. "Miles, lookit us. What the hell would we do with a baby?"

"Yeah, OK. Good point. But grandbaby, right? When's Rachel due?"

Juliet, alarmed, asks, "How do you know about that? Did she tell you already?" Did Rachel tell Miles before her mom and dad? It was kind of sweet to think she told Jimmy first, but Miles? _MILES?_ That kind of – _really_ – hurts Juliet's feelings.

"Nope. No she didn't, but judging by your reaction, I see that I guessed right," Miles crows, pointing his fork at her.

James feels the need to comment, "Nice work blabbin' the news, Cronkite."

She doesn't get a chance to defend herself before Miles is off to the races with grandparent and old-age jokes. She casts a blank stare James' way. _Now what? _A few more old people jokes, and Miles starts in on how they think they are so clever, always think they can hide things from him, but he always figures it out.

James feels it's high time to burst this revisionist history bubble with, "They know the truth. We told 'em. Last night."

Miles swallows the chunk of cantaloupe he just popped in his mouth. He sets down his fork. He asks, uneasily and slowly, all self confidence drained away, "Told who? What. . . what truth?"

"Jimmy and Rachel," James answers. "Told 'em who we are, where we came from. Told 'em everything."

"Well, not everything," Juliet clarifies. Nothing about the people she (they) shot.

Miles looks back and forth between his two oldest and dearest friends, trying to determine whether they're pulling his leg. Finally he attempts, "Why? Why would you do that? I thought you were never gonna . .. " And instead of asking that line of questions, he moves on to the one that's probably even more imporant: "How'd they take it?"

Juliet shrugs. "Really well, I think." She looks over to James, who nods agreement. "Surprisingly well. . . I . . . I guess they'll have more questions, but . . . I think . . . I think it's going to be OK."

Miles says, "Still didn't tell me why you felt the need to just blab it all out of the blue."

Juliet leans back in her chair. She cuts her eyes to James, who's busy cutting a bite-size piece of honeydew into even smaller pieces. She answers (here goes), "Because Jimmy's been dating Kate."

Miles looks startled. "Kate?" he says, incredulous. "Kate? Kate _AUSTEN_? That Kate?" He points at James. "The same Kate you banged up against the bars of that cage?"

"Miles," James grumbles in low warning.

Miles plows on ahead, looking now to Juliet. "Oh yeah, he told me all about that. It sounds kind of nasty, doesn't it? But he said it was fantastic." James slams his fork to his plate (but isn't this kind of what they expected upon telling this news to Miles? Something along these lines). Miles explains, "Told me all this in our first few months in Dharmaville. He was so moony over her back then. Didja know that?"

"Yes, Miles, I did."

"Anyway, sounded pretty hot. Case you're wondering, he never gave much details about what you and him did between the sheets. Or on top of vehicles."

Juliet drops her head to her hand. _Don't let him get the best of you, _she knew this was coming. This was why we tried to think up a convincing lie: "We told them because Jimmy found Juliet Burke's picture on the Internet." Then, though, Jimmy would have to lie, and, well . . . that wouldn't work. Jimmy . . . he's not a good liar.

Miles: "So, guess we'll have to ask Ms. Austen, who's a better lay, you or Jimmy?"

"Well, Miles," Juliet, red faced and embarrassed as she currently is, manages to sit up straight in an attempt to convey decorum and authority. "There you are wrong, because I don't think Jimmy and Kate . . . I don't think they . . . well, you know, they didn't . . ."

UGH UGH UGH UGH. She cannot get the words, or even more horrifying, the image, out of her head. It's bad enough she has to imagine cage sex, now this too? Damn you Kate Austen, damn you.


	5. Chapter 5

**Uhm, hey. Me again. So, it turns out I was/am really not at all that motivated about this little project. These bits and pieces (some of them at least), that I _thought_ were mostly written? Turned out to be not even close. And as I worked on them? Yeah, I thought, there's a reason this stuff didn't make the cut. But, then again, some of them _are_ almost written, so there's that. So, here we go, let's catch this little motivation train that is happening right now and see how far it leads us . . .**

* * *

><p><em><strong>September 5, 1981<strong>_

"Was it . . ." she can't catch her breath or organize her thoughts. "Did it always used to be like that?"

He's pressing his forehead into hers. His eyes are clenched shut, and he's still quivering a little. He grunts a little in response, and she'll take that as a 'yes.' It's the middle of the day, their door is wide open, and Juliet's pretty sure she had just been . . . very loud. Very, very loud.

James finally speaks. "I'm thinkin' I need to see what other street fairs the town's got goin' on. And sponsor one of my own if there ain't any."

Claudia took the kids (Miles included) to the Ann Arbor Art Fair, where they can get their faces painted, eat corndogs, and watch live music. They'll be tired, hot, sticky, and hopped up on sugar (Miles included) when they get home, but this, here, now, makes it worth it.

"Good," James noted last week when Claudia volunteered to take the kids, "I been needin' a free Saturday to put up those metal shelves in the garage."

"That's what you're calling it these days? 'Putting metal shelves in the garage'? I'll have to remember that one," Miles snarked at him. This morning, Miles said, "Well, have fun with that metal shelving. WINK WINK." Miles can't actually wink so he has to say it. He can crinkle up one side of his face, but it looks more like an onset of Bells' Palsy than an actual wink.

Miles turned out to be right, though, because all that metal shelving is still on the floor of the garage. James starts to roll off, but Juliet holds him for second. "Got somewhere you need to be?" she asks.

"Naw, here's good," he chuckles at her. He does roll off, but tucks her against his side as he does so. "You still plannin' an afternoon of thrills at the business library?" he asks.

She likes the business library. She likes the research. James teases her over it endlessly (even though it was his idea). She snuggles against him. Here's why she loves him so much: he makes fun of every single one of her flaws, all the things she's spent her life feeling anxious about and trying to hide: her nerdiness, her need for solitude, her too-intense stares, her instinct to shut down emotionally when she's overwhelmed. He knows all of that, teases her about all of it, and loves her anyway. It floors her sometimes that the things she's spent a lifetime trying to blunt and veil turn out to be OK with him. More than OK. He loves her. The actual her, not some shined-up, prettified version. He loves _her_.

"Still sometimes wonder why I hated you so damn much," he says.

Or . .. well. Hmmmm. That's not what she was thinking.

"I think it had to do with us terrorizing and kidnapping you all," she says in a small voice. She was feeling so lovey dovey. Why does he have to start with "I Hate the Others"?

"Naw. I mean you specifically. I hated you worse'n any of 'em. 'Cept maybe Ben."

God, it's worse than she thought. "Can we not talk about it?"

"Well, now, I don't _still_ hate ya." He runs his fingers over her hip, over her side. "But back then?" He whistles. "Whoo boy." His fingers drift up over the scar on her back.

"Stop, please." She killed someone. She killed Danny to save her sister. Because she'd do anything for her sister, right? Not right. That's the lie she tells herself. She killed Danny for herself. Because she'd do anything to go home. Rachel was just fine.

Juliet killed someone else. She killed that guy at Amy's picnic to save the father of her children. Because she'd do anything for James, right? Not right. That's the lie she tells herself. She killed that guy to save herself. James wasn't the father of her children. Not then. He was just a big lug she was growing to (marginally) like.

James just happens to be the lucky, life-saving recipient of her murderous impulses. It scares her to death what she's capable of. What she might do if anything happened to either of her children. She wonders how ice cold and emotionless she could make herself if one of her kids got hurt . . . or worse.

"Hey," James says. "I'm just makin' a joke, you know that, right? I think it's kind cool how I used to think about you. Cause, ya know, normally once I make my mind up about someone, that's it. All 'cept for you." He pauses, then adds, "You and Miles, I guess."

She'd like to make a joke about being lumped in with Miles, but it wouldn't be fair. Miles is their friend. The long-running joke is that they barely tolerate him. The truth is they probably wouldn't be sane without him. The truth is they love him. He's Jimmy and Rachel's surrogate uncle. He's their family.

James, mistaking her silence, says, "I can prove it to ya if ya want."

"Hmmmm?" She doesn't follow.

"That I don't hate ya no more. Want me to prove it?"

"You finally gonna get to work on those metal shelves?"

He chuckles, a low rumble she can feel in his chest "If that's what you're callin' it these days, then . . . yeah." He turns his body and lifts himself on his elbows, looming over her. He dips his head to kiss the side of her neck.

She starts to laugh, but her laugh fades into a contented sigh. Why in the world does she ever allow herself to get too far inside her own head?

Forty minutes later they're on the floor of the garage, getting to work on the metal shelves. No euphemism. James sets out the brackets and stacks the shelves themselves. Juliet sorts through the bolts and chooses associated drill bits. Working together, they can conceivably get this done. Except they've only got one set halfway up before Miles and Claudia, kids in tow, pull into the driveway. The rest of the garage floor is crowded with shelves, brackets, nuts, bolts, corrugated cardboard boxes.

"Gosh, two whole shelves. You two work fast. But, wait . . . weren't you gonna put these along two whole walls?" Miles remarks.

"Got sidetracked, Bonsai."

"You don't say. Shocker."

* * *

><p><strong>Yeah. That's a bit more navel-gazing than I like. All of these coming chapters kind of are, actually. And those metal garage shelves were going to be a gimmick that appeared throughout the story. FYI, Rachel crashed into them shortly after she got her license, and it's where Jimmy ended up storing most of his hockey gear, and his verboten poster of the hot babe on the hood of the car got stashed there. The very last of their stuff before they moved out to LA was going to be there. Then, well, it's just a gimmick and I had no idea what the "meaning" was besides, "wouldn't it be cool if. . ." Anything that maymay not have been made that same day (eep! Spoiler Alert!) would not be (sniff) as hardy as those durn shelves.**


	6. Chapter 6

**September 24, 1981**

Juliet snatches the phone midway through the second ring. It's been raining all day, and she needs a break. Maybe this'll be a telemarketer. If so, she'll ignore the kids for the five minutes of pleasure afforded listening to someone try to convince her to upgrade her long distance service.

It's not a telemarketer: "Hey. We got anything goin' on tonight?" he says without introducing himself.

"Not . . .I . . . nothing that can't wait, I guess," she answers, glancing at the plastic Eckerd's Drugs bag stashed on the counter next to the coffee maker. "Why?"

"That sonofabitch Powell's got strep or some other damn thing, and Dolan's makin' me take his shift tonight. Sure we don't got something big planned? I could use an excuse."

"Couldn't you just lie? Isn't that what you do?"

"Funny. I ain't gonna lie. Maybe I should just quit. Ain't like we need the money, right? I don't need the hassle. Doncha think we can put the dynamic duo through college with what we got already?"

"Yeah, but . . ." she sneaks another peak at the drugstore bag.

He talks over her. "All right. Hell, I know I'm talkin' outta my ass anyway. Havin' a real job ain't all it's cracked up to be. I tell ya what, babe, too mucha this shit, and I'm leavin'." He takes great pride in his job. He also always puts his family first. He just missed out on a promotion because he almost never takes weekend shifts.

"Mamaaaaaa!" Rachel wails from the family room. "He's dumping out my crayon box! He's stomping on the blue and pink! Mamaaaaaaa!"

Juliet sighs. "I've got to go. When will you be home?"

"Shift change at midnight. Be home soon after, I hope."

"Mamaaaa!"

"Gotta go. Love you." _But pissed at you. _Another night home alone. She really signed up for this? Even _more_ of this? She hangs up.

"Mammaaaaa!" Now Jimmy's wailing, too. Rachel probably knocked him over. Juliet waits a beat, steeling herself for even more peacemaking and brow kissing. "Mammmmmaaaaaa!" They screech simultaneously.

"Hey!" she barks at them. "Knock it off in there!" Another glance toward the oracle of the drug store bag. She'd bought the test this afternoon, giddy and full of anticipation for tonight.

"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!" Rachel screeches from the next room. Jimmy howls.

Giddiness is replaced by this sentiment: OH, HELL.

She goes to her children. She picks up her son, helps her daughter straighten her crayons. She looks at her watch. OK. Four hours and thirteen minutes until bedtime. Except _Sesame Street _starts in thirteen minutes. That'll give her an hour of peace and quiet. Then, dinner. It was supposed to be James' night to cook. Now she'll have to figure something out, and by the time dinner's over, she'll only have to figure out how to get through another . . . two hours. Jesus. Maybe a telemarketer actually will call, and give her a few minutes of adult conversation.

Even better, the doorbell rings ten minutes into _Sesame Street_. It could be a traveling salesman. He'll want to talk about new gutters or encyclopedias or something equally boring. But adult. Or, it could be a serial killer, but maybe he'd engage her in some adult conversation before creepily slitting her throat and leaving behind cryptic but tantalizing clues for the local police to analyze.

She's normally not so strung out and desperate, but the rain, rain, rain, and James has had back-to-back busy weeks, meaning no mid-week days off for Juliet to go hole up for the whole day at the business library.

It's not a serial killer or a salesman at the door. It's Miles under the awning. She swings the door wide open. She loves this guy. He's holding two boxes of steaming pizza. She could marry this guy. Except she's already married. Or, no . . .she's not.

"Look," Miles starts explaining. "I know I'm showing up uninvited, but I brought pizza. And beer." He sets a six-pack on top of the pizzas. "Jim said it was his night to cook, so I figured he wouldn't kick my ass if I showed up with dinner."

"He's not here."

Miles looks confused.

"He had to take someone's shift, someone was sick . . ."

"Don't tell me. It was Powell, wasn't it? That guy was pissing and moaning all afternoon. He's an ass. I slipped out early just so Dolan wouldn't stick me with his shift. So, uh . . . still . . .can I stay? I promise to be an adult, and not a third kid. 'Cause I mean, who needs that, right?"

"Uh, right." Exactly right. OH HELL.

"Besides, if nothing else, I'm an extra pair of hands."

Juliet blows out air. "I guess," she "reluctantly" concedes, because she and Miles regularly play at being barely tolerant of each other. As if she wouldn't fall down and drag him back in by the ankles if he turned around and walked to his car.

He's dinner and an extra pair of hands and adult conversation. The evening runs by faster than she could have imagined, and the kids are in bed.

"Want another?" Miles holds out a beer. She shakes her head. He says, "Seriously? I made a special trip to get the fancy stuff since I know you hate the cheap shit."

"OK." She takes the can, not wanting to carry this inquiry out any further than necessary. She pops the top and sets the can down. "Where's Claudia tonight?" She heads the conversation in that direction.

"She's in Wisconsin for her parents' anniversary party." He finishes a beer. He takes the last of the six-pack, looking to her for permission. She's only had "two" to his four. She feels guilty. She should give him the lukewarm, flat can she only half drank with her pizza. Or this still-cold one she's pretending to drink now.

Instead she pushes on the Claudia issue. "Thought you were going to Madison with her."

He downs his beer. She holds hers out to him. "Sure you don't mind?" he asks, taking it from her.

"No. How're you getting home tonight?"

"Planned to have Jim give me a lift . . . You know he's been after me to ask her to marry me?"

"I didn't." She wonders, not for the first time, exactly what Miles and James spend their shifts discussing.

"All right, so I'm not even remotely ready for that, but . . . it got me thinking. You know, I couldbe. I _could._ Claudia . . . she's . . . I really like her."

"She's really great, Miles." He looks like he's getting ready to make a smartass comment. "I'd say that even if she didn't come with free babysitting," she clarifies.

"Then fucking Jim has to go blah blah blah about marriage, and it gets me to thinking. How could I ever . .. . She doesn't know . . . I'm pretty much constantly lying to her about who I am, you know. How could I go through with it? And if I realize that now, isn't it more fair to her to just put an end to it?"

All of that is remarkably insightful and mature. Juliet's not sure what to say. Miles can be so clueless and immature most of the time that it's simple to give him advice. This, though . . . She shrugs, tries just listening.

"Then that fucking asshole, LaFleur, has to go putting ideas in my head. And you know why that is?"

She shakes her head no.

Miles continues, "It's 'cause he's all goofy and happy and shit about, well . . ." Miles rolls his eyes, "about you and the kids, I guess, and he lives in this ridiculous la la land where he thinks we can all be so lucky. I mean he's got his head stuck so far up his ass that he doesn't realize that I'm basically lying to Claudia . . .constantly. AND! And, it all sounds so friendly and encouraging, but scratch just under the surface, and it's him being the selfish ass he usually is. Uhm, no offense."

She stifles a laugh. "None taken. But, sorry . . .how is him wanting you to marry Claudia selfish? Because of the babysitting?"

He scoffs. "No. No. 'Cause I think he has in his mind now that he want his family to be bigger, he's so, like, smitten with you guys. And he just can't leave well enough alone. If I go and marry Claudia, then the kids can have an aunt and maybe cousins. Then he can have a bigger family - and, I mean, how else is that gonna happen unless I tie the knot?"

_I could maybe think of something_, she thinks. She shifts her weight, leaning back on the couch. She rests the back of her head there and stares at the ceiling.

Miles finishes off his drink, crushes the can with his hand, and tosses it into the greasy top flap of the pizza box. "Shit!" he curses. "It's not even just Claudia. It's like it dawns on me that this might be how it always is. And it's not like I can't live a lie. I live it all the time – we all do. It's just . . . you two get to close the door to the house and be yourselves. You've got someone who knows the truth."

"You do, too, Miles. You have us." She puts a hand on his forearm, pats and squeezes.

He smiles at her. "I know, thank you," he puts his hand over hers. "But it's not the same as what you have." He looks sad and pensive, and she's floored by a torrent of emotions. Floored at Miles' thoughtfulness and maturity. Floored at her good luck to have James. Floored that even Miles can see how happy James is. Floored again by giddiness at what the contents of the plastic drugstore bag might tell them. Floored with a surely futile desire to help her dear friend.

"I wish there was something I could do, Miles," is about all she can muster. "Maybe . . . maybe you can try telling her the truth? If she loves you, maybe she'd believe you." Juliet doesn't believe the words even as she says them. She lives this lie, too, and she knows no one would ever believe them. She thinks that as the kids get older and more aware, she and James are going to have to start living the lie more often, too.

Miles scoffs. "Next you're gonna be telling me she's not good enough for me, and I can do better. Might as well go ahead and line up all your mom clichés. You're gonna need 'em eventually."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Miles decides to crash on the couch. Juliet brings down sheets, blankets, and pillows. Miles settles in to the couch. "Fair warning," she says. "You'll be lucky if Rachel sleeps till 7."

"How come you don't just turn that extra bedroom into a guest room already?" he asks.

"Uh, well. . . it's not like we have a lot of overnight guests."

"Yeah, I guess. Well, thanks. For … for everything," he says "You're good people, Jules."

"You too, Miles. Love you," she pats him on the head.

"'Night," he mumbles, sinking into his pillow. "This smells nice," he says.

"It's called clean laundry, Miles. You should give it a try."

He grins, with his eyes closed. "Great. Thanks for the advice, Mom."

Can't stay earnest too long. Gotta get back to normal and act barely tolerant of each other.

She tries to stay up reading in bed until James gets home, but even _Firestarter_ doesn't do the trick. With waves of exhaustion lapping over her, she falls asleep with the bedside lamp still on. She misses him coming in, closing the door to the master bathroom, brushing his teeth, sliding into bed, reaching over her to turn out the light. Only when the room goes completely dark does she wake up.

"What time is it?" she mumbles.

"Not quite 1," he answers. Then, "What's Oda Mae doin' on the couch?"

"I'm having an affair with him, and I didn't think you'd want to catch us in bed together."

She feels the weight of the bed shift as he lies down and settles in. She's close to falling back to sleep when he grumbles, "You two better not be havin' an affair." Even half awake, she knows he's kidding, but even so, the punch line takes her by surprise. "Him and Claudia are gettin' real serious. Don't want you to go messin' it up, throwin' yourself at him." More seriously, he says, "Wouldn't that be great? Him and her gettin' hitched? Then our family'd be more'n just the four of us."

She smiles into her pillow, thinking of the drugstore bag she's hidden behind the coffee filters in the pantry. Her smile fades, thinking of Claudia in Wisconsin and Miles down on the couch. She hopes Miles breaks the news to James gently. He's not going to take their inevitable break up well.

James pulls her to him, and her smile returns. If he had anything else in mind for the evening, though, he's too late. She's asleep again in seconds.

**This was one that was mostly written. There were a series of Miles chapters about his relationship with Claudia, and I ended up telling most of them second-hand. In fact, this one I just changed a little bit so that it would be from Juliet's POV. And this info about why he and Claudia broke up went in Chapter 23. And took me like two paragraphs to tell instead of a thousand words. This part here doesn't quite fit in with the rest of the story anymore, because in the "real" version, (ch 23) Juliet seems somewhat surprised by Miles and Claudia breaking up, which she wouldn't have been if she'd already had this conversation with Miles. Plus, she kind of teases him about it, which she also wouldn't have done if they'd previously had this heart-to-heart. **

**So, here's the deal with Claudia (stuff that was in my head). She was the new receptionist at the security department in late summer 1979. She and Miles hit it off right away. They went on a pseudo date for New Year's that year, and started dating for real in early 1980. They ended up dating for about a year and a half. **

**After they broke up, he arranged his shifts so that they didn't overlap much. Even so, her sister got her a job out in San Diego in spring of 1982. She met and married some guy down there, and they had two kids, but got divorced when they were in high school. When her younger kid went off to college, Claudia moved to LA, where she eventually ran into Miles. (When she reenters the story at James' 70****th**** birthday party, her kids are both in college). **

**She and Miles hit it right off again, and ended up getting married. He told her the whole time travel deal on their wedding day.**


	7. Chapter 7

**September 25, 1981**

James does the bedtime routine solo, because it's his turn, dammit. Juliet gets the kitchen to herself, wiping down counters, humming along with Human League and the Pointer Sisters on the local pop station. She can never quite decide if she loved (loves) or hated (hates) 80s music, but it's one or the other, or both, or all four. Her life is entirely too confusing and weird. And good.

James comes into the kitchen grumbling, and she figures he's grumbling over getting the kids to sleep, but that's not it. "The rugrats are out," he says, "And now I gotta remember once again why I wish I could be a dad in the 21st Century."

She busies herself with putting spice jars back in the spice rack, not meeting his eyes.

He clears his throat. "Or, you know, I don't mean about Clemen. . . or, I just . . . dammit! I just meant it'd be nice to watch a movie on the VCR every so often. It's goddamn Friday night, we should be curled up on the couch watchin' the Beta tape of _Private Benjamin_ or _9 to 5_ or somethin'. We could institute family movie night or some such."

They should probably buy a VCR. Not like anyone in the neighborhood has one, and the LaFleurs have a rep as "Early Adopters" to keep up. Only thing is, there's only one tiny video store, and it's on the other side of town.

Given half a chance, James will start in on Netflix and how back in the day (nearly 25 years from now) you could just order DVD rentals from your computer. Juliet wonders if that was available in 2001. If it was, she never took advantage of it. Note to self: Buy Blockbuster stock when it becomes available. Dump it prior to the Millennium.

He comes up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. "But, now I think on it, maybe it's a good thing we don't got a VCR. 'Cause I got a better idea how to spend our Friday night."

She turns in his arms. "So do I," she says cryptically. She wriggles free, pulls out the Eckerd's bag she'd hidden in the corner cabinet behind the coffee mugs before going to bed last night. She shoves it at his chest.

He raises his eyebrows suspiciously. He looks wary, like she's playing a practical joke on him (and maybe that's what this is). Full of trepidation, he slowly reaches into the bag and pulls out the box. He stares for a second trying to comprehend, then smiles. "You think?" he asks hopefully.

"Actually, I'm pretty sure."

"Well, hot dog! Screw sittin' around watchin' _Chariots of Fire_, let's pee on a stick!"

"You realize I'm the only one who has to do that, right?"

"Aw, hey, check it out: turns out all those years of extra education paid off, Dr. Expert."

* * *

><p>James has no idea why they have to sit and wait. He ain't never been particularly patient, and three minutes seems an insanely long time. Well, he'll just play along with the damn game.<p>

"Ready?" she asks.

He nods decisively. "Yep."

"All right . . . Go!," she depresses the stopwatch plunger with her thumb, and with the ticking intro to _60 Minutes_ as background noise, he begins.

"Dodgers, easy one. Then, Cardinals, Orioles, Tigers, uhm . . . uh, hold on. OK, Royals, Mets, Twins, Dodgers, and, uh . . . Giants. That's the earthquake one. Done! Time?"

She clicks the stopwatch, checks the time. Impressive! "Forty-five seconds. Not bad. Wanna try the 90s? Or football?"

"How 'bout we just look at the stick?" They're sitting on the bathroom floor, and he's leaning against the cabinet under the sink, his legs spread in a 'v' in front of him. He rests his head against the plastic child lock keeping the cabinet secure. "Why we gotta wait? Ain't that three minutes arbitrary?"

"No. It's got an antibody meant to detect human chorionic gonadotropin. It's a hormone. This early in the game, it takes about that long to detect it. The hormone levels double every two days. So if we waited another week, we'd probably be able to tell almost instantaneously."

He's not listening. 'Cause all this science talk and facts always _always_ make his eyes glaze over. And 'cause he snaked his arm up onto the counter and snatched the test when she was busy blah blah blahing with her fancy science talk. He grins. "Yeah, whatever, lady. This one's positive."

Her eyes widen. Her mouth drops open. She tilts her head. "Really?"

"Yeah, really. Thought you said you were pretty sure it would be."

"Yeah, but . . . it's one thing to think, another to know for sure. Really?" she asks again.

"Yah rilly," he valley girls. He holds it out to her.

"Ha. It really is." She grins. "It really is. Ha!" She looks at it again. "Ha!" She crawls over to him on all fours. "Nice work, sir," she says before kissing him.

* * *

><p>She's been wavering on this since February, and now that there's no going back, she's lucky she's landed on thrilled. <em>Thrilled.<em>

She's had his lips on his for all of two seconds when his eyes widen in alarm.

"What're you guys doing on the bathroom floor?" Juliet hears from behind her. She breaks off the kiss, and rests her forehead on James' shoulder.

"What're you doin' outta bed, Princess?" James asks.

"I'm thirsty and I can't sleep," Rachel protests.

Juliet pushes herself up off the floor. She holds out her hand. "Come on, sweetie. Back to bed."

"What about my water?"

"Gave ya a big drink before bed," James says.

Rachel sticks out her lower lip and it trembles just a little. Oh hell. He's going to give in. He is a giant, addled softie, and he's going to give in, and Rachel's going to wet the bed tonight.

"Time to go," Juliet takes her hand, trying to cut off further wheedling.

"But, Mama," she whines.

Juliet turns a hard stare on her daughter. "No buts, Rachel. It is time for bed." _Hard stare. Calm face. Give nothing away. Speak calmly and plainly. No unnecessary words. Make your intentions clear. Do not lose your patience. You have the upper hand. You dictate the terms of this engagement._ All valuable lessons, probably Advanced Others 404, and Juliet mastered the course. Turns out, it doesn't work on three-and-a-half year old girls.

Rachel jerks her hand out of Juliet's grasp, crosses her arms across her chest and pouts. Good lord, she looks like her father. And, goddammit, Others 404 _always _worked, works, on him.

He pipes in now, barking, "Bed, Apple Dumplin'!" She hesitates. "Now!" He points a long finger toward her room. She turns on her heel and flounces out. That pretty much contradicts every lesson the Others ever taught, but it works.

James groans, levers himself off the floor, favoring his balky knee. He pulls Juliet close, plants a kiss on her forehead, kneads her shoulders just a brief second. "Be right back," he says. "I'll check she's actually complyin'."

They're nuts. Certifiable. Three kids? She feels like she's vibrating with happiness, and she wants – desperately – to share her news. With her mother, or her father, or, truthfully, her sister. Like every good thing that's happened to her in the four years she's been off that damn Island, she wishes she could share with her sister.

* * *

><p><strong>On its own, this one's too sappy sweet for my taste, but as part of the bigger story, it's too sad for my taste. Well. <strong>

**There was to be more to it, and I've been racking my brain for a week trying to remember what that was, but alas . . . _Maybe_ something with their old couple neighbors who live across the street? I don't know. Those old people_ were_ supposed to be in the story more, since in "present day" Juliet and James were old, and I just thought . . . something. Something about old people. There you have it.**


	8. Chapter 8

**November 17, 1981, 8:15 AM**

Juliet stares in the mirror. She leans closer . . . closer . . . even closer. She gets as close as her newly swollen abdomen will let her. And that, bumping up against the edge of the counter? That's not supposed to be that big this soon, is it? Third go-round. It's the way it happens. But it's not that noticeable, yet. . . is it? Please, no. No, not too obvious, she doesn't think. Not with her meeting this morning. Ugh. Why'd she schedule that on her birthday, anyway?

She is forty. Forty! Has been for a little more than three hours. She stares, her nose an inch from the glass. She opens her eyes wide, tilts her head left, then right. Crow's feet still there, but no deeper or longer than yesterday. She looks at herself straight on, furrows her brow, unfurrows it. The worry lines stay etched in her forehead and will stay there for several minutes. Just like yesterday. She needs to stop furrowing her brow. Those lines are going to be permanent soon enough. She dips her head down, stares at the crop of gray hair hiding near the part. No more than yesterday, and neatly camouflaged by the blonde. She's lucky her hair's light. She wonders how soon Rachel went gray (will go gray . . .whatever). She thinks of her sister and sighs.

She looks in the mirror one last time, wondering what she expected to see there. Forty. Not like she really believed she'd go to bed at 39 and wake up at 40, looking like a changed woman. Although . . . more than a thousand miles south of here a little girl is staring in the mirror right this very minute, convinced, _absolutely convinced_, that now's she's ten (double digits!), she's gonna be all grown up. She'll stare in the mirror until her big sister catches her and teases her and makes fun.

She sighs again, thinking of her sister. Her mom, too. Her newly single, 38-year-old mom. Her dating disasters, her always-short-lived vows to give up men altogether, her attempts to find flexible jobs that allow her to be home for her daughters. Juliet's been thinking of her mom and sister a lot lately. Missing them in ways she hasn't for years.

She would never do anything to jeopardize the life she's got now. Would never think of messing with what happened, but couldn't she just see them? Not now, of course. Holidays coming up, and things will be busy here, and there, too, with Mom and Dad trying to work out who gets who when over the holidays, their second divorced holiday season (Mom had them for Christmas last year, Juliet thinks). More and more, though, she's been thinking she should just hop on a flight down there. Maybe sometime early in the New Year. She could put her Others skills to the test, follow and stalk her mom. Maybe bump into her and ask her something innocuous like directions somewhere or ask Mom for help with her bags. Hell, she's big enough already, she'll be enormous by February. Surely Mom would help her load her bags into her car, and surely Mom would have no clue – _none_ – who she was.

"Yep! Knew it! Eyes are the first things to go," James chortles from the door.

"Huh?" she whips around to face him.

"You were like an inch from the mirror. I been tellin' ya. You hit forty, and boom! Your eyes go to shit. And sure enough, here ya are, so close to the mirror, you look like you're about to make out with yourself."

Thirteen hundred miles south, her sister is making fun of her. Sigh. Here, James is. She doesn't miss her sister so much anymore.

He pulls her to him and kisses her forehead. She wants to argue that her eyes aren't going bad, but then she'd have to admit she was staring at herself in the mirror. She hears uproarious laughter from downstairs. Captain Kangaroo.

James lets her go. "Nice duds," he comments. _Yeah, OK, thanks._ This stupid get-up when none of her clothes fit right anyway, and "business lady" clothes in 1981 come with shoulder pads and floppy ties. It's absurd and ill fitting, and she's pretty sure a button or two is going to blow.

"What time's your meeting?"

"Nine thirty," she mumbles. Four times a year she has meet with their broker, Lyle. God, she hates Lyle. Lyle doesn't ask questions, though. Lyle set them up with a fake social. Lyle's underhanded and sleazy. She wishes he'd just keep his sleaziness to his (and their) business dealings. Instead, he's always hitting on her. It's not even flattering – it seems to be his only way of relating to women. He's always calling her "little lady," and worst of all, asking what her husband thinks of this, that, or the other. No, worst of all is that Juliet plays along with it. She's spent the better part of two weeks researching their next set of investments, and when she goes in this morning, she'll sell it all thusly:

Giggle, giggle, "Jim really seems to think we need to get out of Coca-Cola. Oh, I don't know why. Maybe Pepsi's sponsoring the Lions this year. Who knows why men do what they do? Not my place to ask." And Lyle will try to talk her out of dumping Coke, and she won't be dissuaded because "This is what he wants. I have to do what he wants." (_Because New Coke is going to be a disaster, and I can't remember exactly when that happens, and I want to get out in time._)

She wants to send James, but she doesn't: this is her job, dammit, and she's good at it, and she's not going to send _him_ to do _her_ job. She doesn't because he doesn't know nearly as much as she does about this stuff. She doesn't because they both know Lyle gives them discounts on broker fees because he has the hots for her. When they get $500,000 (she's estimating late '83), she's going to figure a way to leave Lyle behind.

But . . . seriously . . . why the hell did she schedule this meeting for her birthday? She'll get their account statements today, though. She is looking forward to that at least. And the afternoon at the business school library. Cisco. That's what's on the research agenda today.

She sidles past James into the bedroom. She picks her briefcase up off the floor, gives herself one more quick glance in the mirror on the back of the bedroom door. God, this is ridiculous, she thinks, straightening her goofy tie.

"Nice look, Tess," James notes.

"You're going to have to explain that one." Tess of the d'Urbervilles? What? She heads downstairs, and he follows along. He doesn't bother to explain. Instead he kisses her at the front door.

"Knock him dead today," he rah rahs. She's halfway down the front walk when he calls after her, clarifying, "I don't mean that literal!"


	9. Chapter 9

**November 17, 1981 10:15 PM**

James shuts the door behind Miles. Miles – fucking Miles, who is chuckling under his breath and shaking his head as he exits. Chuckling and shaking his head over who the hell knows what. There's _at least_ four things tonight he could be shaking his head over (the money, the pregnancy, his superior gift, the doll shoe James just stepped on), and that's just what James can come up with off the top of his head.

Miles being Miles. Half the time, James doesn't know whether he wants to punch Miles in the face, or wrap him in a bear hug. Back in the summer James complained about him to Doc B over at the music building, and Doc B said, "Huh. Sounds like how I feel about my little brother." Doc B's gotta be pushing 70. James wondered how old the little brother is . . . And. Holy shit.

Huh. Huh. James's been thinking on this for a few months now. Is that what it's like to have a little brother? Half the time you wanna punch him? But you'd fuckin' ram your fist down someone's throat if _they _wanted to punch him? Huh.

It's kind of cool actually. Huh. His little brother, er, "little brother," the Asian valley dude. Huh. His wife, er, "wife," the degree-heavy blonde ice queen. Who'd of ever thunk it? And, the thing is, this family thing? When done right? That's actually pretty cool, and if he's secretly thinking of Miles as his little bro, that's not a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all. His kids call him "Uncle Miles," and James likes that.

He wonders again where Claudia was tonight. James sure would like it if Miles and Claudia made a go of it. Miles is great with Jimmy and Rachel. He'd be a good dad. Then, James' kids (all three of them! Or, well, fuck, the three that live here. . . now. . . whatever) could have cousins. He'd never mention this to a soul, this desire to rope Claudia into his big happy family dreams. He'll hint around with Miles, maybe, but he's not going to let on that it's all 'cause he wants a big, happy family and peace, love, and understanding, and all that BS. Miles would laugh at him. Juliet would roll her eyes if she found out. So, nope. But, still, where was Claudia tonight?

He puts the dessert plates in the washer. He grabs a few crayons off the floor, tosses them into Rachel's crayon box. He picks that bank statement off the coffee table, ogles all the zero's there, fantasizes over what they're gonna do when they're rich. He wants a fancy car and a house with a heated pool. He wants his kids to go to college wherever the hell they want. He turns off the lights and jogs upstairs.

Juliet's standing sideways to the full-length bathroom mirror, running her hands down her front. This morning she'd been in here staring at her face.

"How's the view, Warren Buffet?" he asks.

They lock eyes in the mirror, and she gets an "Oh shit, caught" look on her face. It fades, and she asks, "It's totally obvious isn't it?"

"Uh, what's that?" he asks, buying time. He knows what she means, could tell by the way she was staring at her profile, pulling the hem of her t-shirt away from her stomach. He's just outta practice answering stupid rhetorical questions like this. She ain't never asked the "does this dress make me look fat?' kinda questions.

She just keeps staring at him, 'cause she knows the game he's playing. Least he's bought enough time to answer, "Yeah. It is obvious, and you know I don't got a problem with that." He stands behind her, wrapping a hand around her waist. He really doesn't. God, not at all. There was this dude in prison, and all his porn was pregnant chicks, and you know, to each his own, but, goddamn, Sawyer thought that was creepy and gross and more'n a little perverted. Still kinda thinks that, but he's always thought Juliet's been more'n a little sexy when she's noticeably pregnant, and does that mean he's perverted? Why is that? Does it make him some kinda Neanderthal or something? Likes to keep 'em in the kitchen barefoot and pregnant? Ain't he better'n that now? And this is all just as confusing as thinking that Miles is his little brother. Why can't he just accept that some things are the way they are? Miles is a goddamn pain in the ass, and the best friend he's ever had. Juliet's sexy when she's pregnant. End of story, and none of it means anything big and important. And not every goddamn thing has to be a statement on who he, James, Jim, Sawyer, whoever the fuck is. Right?

"Right?" Juliet asks, wriggling away from his grasp.

"Huh?" Shit. Had she been talking while he spaced out?

She's exasperated. She sighs. "Forget it," she says.

"Naw, sorry. Just got a little distracted thinkin' about how sexy you are right now."

"Give it a rest," she shakes her head at him. "You really expect me to buy that?"

_It's kinda the truth, just I left out the part about how I'm worried it might mean I'm a pervert. Which I am not._ "Just tell me what's botherin' ya."

"I had that meeting with that sleaze bucket Lyle. I know what he thinks about me: 'Little Ann Arbor housewife, getting a break from her kids today. Let me just humor the pretty little lady.' You know, I went in there this morning thinking I looked somewhat professional. And as it turns out, I went in there looking like exactly who I am: the silly little housewife who's pregnant for the third time in four years." She's glaring at him like somehow this is all his fault. Which, granted, it is.

She's got one hand on her hip, the other rubbing her temples. She looks really put out by the whole thing. This he don't get. Who the fuck cares what that bastard thinks about her or any of them? All that matters is what's on that bank statement downstairs. She looks at him plaintively, like somehow he's supposed to get what he's supposed to say. Normally he does. He tries, "I . . . I'm sorry."

That gets a laugh, which wasn't the expected response, but, hey, not bad. "It's not your fault," she says, then stops to laugh more. "Well, I guess it is, but that's not what I meant."

"Now, all this pretendin' you're someone you ain't's all new to you, so I'll let this piss-poor attitude of yours slide, missy. But lemme let you in on a secret. Him underestimatin' ya? Thinkin' you're just some pretty bubblehead who may not even be sure how to prevent that?" he points at her belly. "That's all good. More he underestimates ya, more ya can pull one over on him. When do you meet him next?"

"March," she answers.

"Perfect. Ya just waddle on in there," he puts his palms against his lower back, splays his feet, juts out his hips, takes a few waddling steps toward her. He gets another laugh. "Then just pull out all the stops, 'Ah, my thoughtless husband making me do all his dirty work. Oooh, I'm just so tired,' and blah blah blah, sore back and swollen feet and on and on like that. And then, 'Things are kinda tight now. Do you mind waiving that fee? Or better yet, you think you can just transfer this stuff to an account I can control? I'm not gonna be able to get in to see you anytime soon, and it sure would help me out.' Then, boom, next thing ya know, ya've got full control of those accounts just like you've always been wantin'."

"I don't know . . ."

"Listen. Trust me. These two life skills help me get by: I'm a good liar, and people always underestimate me." _Even you, I bet, once upon a time_, he doesn't say.

She purses her lips, crosses her arms over her stomach. When she finally speaks, she says, "I don't like being underestimated. I guess I liked being someone people respected."

All the time he's known her, she's run away from what she used to do and who she used to be. Just chugged right along as a mechanic. But somehow he always knew she felt this way. He's glad she's finally admitted it. "You, ah . . . wanna go back to school or somethin'? I think we can afford it."

She smiles. "No. I do like the stock picking. I'd hate to give that up. Besides, when am I gonna find the time to go to school? I just . . . it sounds horrible I know, but I liked being someone important."

"You are important," he says. "Maybe not to as many people as you used to be, but to the people you are important to? You are really, really important to us."

She smirks at him. "You should've added smooth talking to the list of your life skills."

He grins. "Ah, well, now, I got some other skills I'd be happy to show ya if you're interested." He pulls her to him again.

"Then you'd better leave the bathroom and shut the door behind you. I'm getting ready to floss my teeth."

UGH. Ugh. James thinks there is nothing less sexy than tooth flossing. Ugh. Little bits of whitened slimy food on a string. Disgusting. She could probably do it in the sexiest, most revealing little bit of lingerie she could find and it would still turn his stomach. He may've changed his opinion on a good many things, but not this.

He lets her go. "Roger that. I'll be waitin' in bed when you're through." UGH UGH UGH.

He takes the envelope hiding in plain sight from off his dresser before falling into bed.

"Melanie Griffith!" he hears her yelp from behind the bathroom door.

"Huh?"

Her head appears from behind the bathroom door. Only her head. He assumes this means she's keeping any used or partially used floss hidden out of sight. "Melanie Griffith? _Working Girl_? Tess? That's what you meant . . . this morning."

"Only 'cause I couldn't remember that uptight bitch Sigourney Weaver played." No response. No laugh. No glare. No pursed lips. Just a closed door. "Ah, come on. .. I's just kiddin' . . . Juliet?"

"Couldn't you be nice for once?" she calls from the bathroom. "It's my birthday, you know."

"I know, and I got something out here for ya."

"I know what you've got out there for me, and it's done more than enough damage already, thank you," she answers, but he can hear a hint of a laugh.

"Not that. Or, well, more'n just that. Come on out." She does. Wearing a t-shirt only. No trace of dental floss anywhere to be found. She smells minty. She approaches the bed. He hands over the envelope. She looks apprehensive. "Go ahead, open it. It ain't gonna bite."

She sits on the edge of the bed, and he scooches to the middle to give her more room. She opens the envelope and pulls out the two tickets inside. He watches her thought process: confusion, excitement, more confusion. "I don't . . ." she starts. "Pavarotti? With the Detroit Symphony? Saturday after Thanksgiving? But the dates aren't . . . how did you? These are sold out. I tried getting these for a month."

He shakes his head. "Sorry, it ain't Detroit." He taps the tickets, indicating that she look closer. "It's at the University, and it's the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. Week from today, in fact." Before she can say anything, he adds "And I talked to Claudia already, she's comin' over. That I-talian opera fella's doin' somethin' here with some of the music students. A lot of 'em are apparently stayin' behind just for this. But 'cause of the holiday an' all, there's extra tickets, and, well," he shrugs, "thought we could maybe have a proper date."

"You mean the second ticket's for you?" she teases. But she's beaming. He done good. It feels good to do this right. Feels even better the way she's leaning over him now. He's glad he waited till Miles left to give her this one.


	10. Chapter 10

**November 23, 1981**

James sticks two fingers up under his collar. He stretches his neck and loosens his tie a bit. Jesus, this is uncomfortable. Used to, when he put on a suit, he'd feel smooth and powerful, like he could talk a skeeter into bug spray. Now he feels like he's faking it. Faking what, he's not sure. Faking like he belongs here with all these fancy-pants opera lovers. He's undoubtedly the only person here without a high school degree. The 'patrons' (the polite word for 'snooty folks who like this kind of shit') all gotta be college grads at the very least. He's pretty sure even the catering staff walking around with glasses of champagne and trays of canapés (he heard someone call them that) are college kids.

"Enjoying yourself?" Doc B asks, and James hadn't even notice him sidle up. James doesn't get a chance to answer, before the older man starts laughing to himself. "Of course you aren't," he answers himself. "At least the booze is free, eh?" He lifts his champagne glass, and James raises his.

Doc B's been here at Michigan for decades, but hasn't lost his South Carolina lowlands lilt. His accent is smooth and cultured, but undoubtedly Southern. First time James ever had to work security for an event here in the music building, Doc B caught right on, asking where James was from, reminiscing about their shared Southern background, fried okra, "real" college football, soupy summer air, and syrupy sweet sweet tea. Doc B's got a PhD in music theory or some such, but he's all right. James takes shifts over here for most big events and even slips Doc B betting tips from time to time.

James sips his champagne. "Thanks again for the tickets, Doc."

Doc B used to beg James to call him Emil, but he's given it up. He laughs again. "No problem. I can see you're having a fabulous time."

"She's havin' a great time, and I guess is that's enough for me." She had tears in her eyes and goosebumps on her arms for some of Pavarotti's . . .er, songs? Arias? Whatever . . . during the first half? Or, you know, the part before intermission.

"I've not yet had the pleasure of meeting your wife," he says.

James indicates a clutch of folks in the center of the room, listening to some member of the Detroit Symphony wax eloquent about something.

"In the red?" Doc B asks, gesturing to a shorter youngish woman, pleasant-enough looking.

"Nah, the blonde in the black dress." James misses Doc B's ogling look because he's too busy ogling her himself. Goddamn, that's a pretty amazing dress, modest enough to be appropriate given the setting, but flattering, goddamn. And heels. James tilts his head to get a nice good look at her calves. Goddamn. Maybe if this fancy pants bullshit and uptight pinched nosed blah blah blah means she'll wear heels more often, maybe it's worth it.

"And how on God's green earth did you manage that?' Doc B asks.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Doc B raises and eyebrow, clearly expecting a humorous story of missed connections and unfortunate bad dates: "She was on a date with my best friend," "Just ran into each other in the break room," or some typical shit like that.

"Trust me," James emphasizes. "Beyond belief." _At one point she held a gun to the woman I thought I loved. Ha ha, right, Doc B?_

Doc B shrugs. It's not the first time he's butted up against a conversation block with James. There are things the younger man simply won't tell. Doc B chalks them up to a private nature. So, he simply notes, "All that, and an opera lover, too? You are quite lucky, young man, that I'm not thirty years younger."

James grins. He'll never completely lose the sin of pride.

An attractive older woman approaches. She's short, overly bejeweled, with that sleek older lady helmet hair that seems like it might crack off if you touch it wrong. She looks right past James to smile broadly at Doc B, and he smiles back, even bigger. James knows before Doc B says, "Jim, this is my wife, Edith."

James almost laughs. All that Doc B said about what he'd do if he were thirty years younger? All a big game - he's clearly enamored of the short, sparkly woman he's with now.

Before James can say anything, Edith reaches out to squeeze his arm, and say, "You're the young man Emil talks about so much. I'm so glad he's finally found someone he can talk Auburn-Alabama with."

"Speaking of, Jim, who you got this year?"

James fumbles for an answer. He and Jules drill all the time on the big games ("Super Bowls of the 90s, ready . . . go"), but random games in-season, fuck if he has a clue, and he don't wanna steer the old fella wrong. He doesn't get a chance to answer. Edith pulls a camera from a heavily beaded bag, and asks if he'll take a picture. She and Doc B stand together and smile. James clicks the shutter. They're cute. Doc B's a lucky guy. He takes another – in case someone had their eyes shut. Someday, someone'll invent a camera where you can peek at the back and see your pic . . . and Juliet plans to be out of Kodak before that happens.

Doc B murmurs thanks, rolls his eyes at his wife, and starts right back with, "So, Iron Bowl. Who ya got?"

"Gotta go with 'Bama," James asserts. Gotta go with figuring out a way to park my ass in front of the TV this coming Saturday. Thanksgiving's day after tomorrow. He'll spend all day Friday with the kids. That should earn him some couch potato time. He'll never ever ever tell her he coulda got tickets to the Pavarotti thing in Detroit on Saturday. He didn't want to miss the game.

Luckily Juliet's little clutch of fancy pants symphony chatterers breaks up, and she heads in his direction. He makes introductions, and Juliet thanks Doc B for the tickets. Edith whips out her camera again, asks for a shot with the two of them. They smile for the camera in their fancy clothes and Edith clucks "Lovely, lovely lovely," and maybe that picture turned out all right. The house lights start blinking. Time to go back in to listen to some more warbling in a foreign language. Fantastic.

Doc B claps him on the shoulder offering up, "Congratulations, son. You hadn't said anything." James nods, smiles. And, yeah, since they're not officially telling anyone yet, then why'd she wear that dress?

* * *

><p>"He doesn't look at all like I imagined he would," Juliet says, braking at the light.<p>

"Pavarotti? Looks like Dom DeLuise to me. Just like I knew he would." James rests his head on the seatback.

"Your friend, Dr. Beattie."

"What'd you expect him to look like?"

"I guess I pictured Doc Brown from _Back to the Future_."

"He's a musician, not a time travel guru."

"Well, too bad for us, then."

_What's that supposed to mean? _She wants to go back to the future? Their "right time?" Cause what_ is_ that? What about all that money? She thinkin' at all about that? Or what goin' back to the Island might mean for them? All of them? Jesus Fucking Christ, how did Claire manage cartin' that baby all over the damn place? And . . .

"Thank you again for tonight." She's on to something else. Maybe that was a joke, but what about what she said last week about wanting to be important? _What was all that about? _

She's turns to smile a dazzling smile at him. "Hey, keep your eyes on the road," he huffs. "And thanks for driving."

"Lucky you, traveling about with your personal designated driver."

He taps his temple with a forefinger. "Yep. 'Bout time you realize, I got a ulterior motive for everything. I mean, screw havin' another kid. I just want someone to drive my drunk ass around for the better part of a year." So two and a half glasses of champagne don't constitute drunk exactly, but even so.

"Nice."

"Speakin' of nice. I was thinkin'. When we get home, and you're, uh, payin' me back for how awesome tonight was, mind leavin' on the shoes?" Those heels? Fuckin' amazing.

"I didn't realize there was going to be payback."

"Again: ulterior motives, baby. Ulterior motives."

* * *

><p>Juliet sees Claudia to the door, and James was meaning to ask her something about Miles. Like where the hell is he tonight? But . . . well payback (in heels) awaits, and if Jules wants to hustle Claudia out, then let her. There's somethin' about the kids goin' to bed, and Rachel wanting something, and blah blah blah, and maybe he<em> is<em> a crappy dad, 'cause who the fuck cares what in the world Rachel wanted, she's asleep now, ain't she, and pretty much all that matters anyway is Juliet's calves. In those shoes, good god, WHAT THE FUCK could they be talking about that is taking so damn long, and of course, he could turn on his ears and listen, but maybe not, the blood's pounding in them so hard. Why doesn't she wear shoes like that more often, annnnnnd . . . Claudia is, mercifully, gone.

They race up the steps, him tugging at his tie knot as he goes. By the time they get to the bedroom, all he's managed to do is loosen the knot so it hangs midway down his chest. That's OK, though, 'cause Juliet uses it to pull him toward her. Somehow she's kissing him, and holding his face, and loosening his tie all at once. This must be why he never wears ties. Takes too damn long to get undressed. She's still working at it, and just forgetabout it, he thinks, move on to the belt buckle, please. God, please. He's got a fistful of dress fabric clutched at her ass, and . . .

"Mama? . . .Mama?" from down the hall.

Juliet closes her eyes. "No, no, no," she murmurs, shaking her head. "Go back to sleep," she whispers, as if really really meaning it and saying it very quietly will make it come true.

For a moment, the only sound they can hear is their own panting. Sonofabitch, maybe it _does_ work. Juliet takes the opportunity to finally slide his tie out of his collar. Then . . .

"Daddy?" It's from down the hall still, so it's not like they got caught, but still . . . she's gonna come waltzing in here any minute if someone doesn't go find out what the hell she wants.

"Hold that thought," he growls, letting go of the back of Juliet's dress, smoothing his hand across a perfect, perfect ass cheek as he goes, grumbling all the way.

He opens the door to his daughter's room. She's sitting up in bed, a sad look on her face, illuminated by her Holly Hobby nightlight. "Watcha want, babydoll?" he asks. _Make it quick, hop to, hop to, got better things to get back to._

"Claudia said you'd give me a kiss before you went to bed."

"Well, I ain't gone to bed yet." (_Not for lack of trying_) "I'm here to give you a goodnight kiss now."

"Claudia said you'd do it first thing when you got home."

_Thought she said I'd do it before bed. Pick one, kid. _"Well, I got sidetracked."

"Whassat mean?"

"Got distracted doin' somethin' else."

She narrows her eyes suspiciously. "Doing what?"

"Uh," he stumbles for an appropriate lie.

"I'm your best girl, right? You said that."

_Yeah, see, men say things like that to get women to do what they want. Probably told you that when I needed you to get your socks on or eat your broccoli or something. Better learn that lesson now, string bean. Or, well, no. No, fuck that. No. Don't you ever learn that lesson, princess. No. You _are _my best girl, and one day you're gonna be grown up, and you better damn well believe you deserve to be __someone's __best girl, and don't accept nothin' less. _

"That's right. You are my best girl, and now I'm gonna give my best girl a big ole goodnight kiss."

She wiggles under her covers and beams at him. That's kinda worth it. He plants a big smacker on her forehead and one more on each cheek. She giggles. "You smell like Mama's perfume."

"That OK with you?" he asks.

She nods. "Mama smells nice and looks pretty when she dresses up fancy."

"Yep." _Yep, yep, yep, dammit. And yet here I am._

"Will you stay with me a little bit?"

He sighs heavily, but does as requested. She's his best girl. She needs to know that. Besides, if she ain't all the way conked out yet, no point in going back to his own room.

It doesn't even take five minutes for her breathing to even out. He slowly eases himself from her bed, and tiptoes out the door. In the hall, he notices the door to Jimmy's room is cracked. Claudia must not remember they usually keep it completely shut. He opens the door a bit wider, just to poke his head in. Jimmy's lying on his tummy with his little butt in the air. He's sucking his thumb, and the hair stuck to his forehead is slightly sweaty. He's sleeping peacefully.

James doesn't worry so much anymore. Not like he used to. Worried that the rug iss gonna get pulled out from under them at any minute. What happens doesn't happen, or someone figures out they ain't who they say they are, or Dharma somehow comes knocking on the door. Shit, maybe it _will_ happen. Maybe he _should_ worry. But he don't. Fuckin-A, his life is on autopilot now. His kids are happy and healthy, they're busy filling up their nice white-picket-fence four bedroom place in the 'burbs, and that amazing bank statement that grows just a little bit each day.

Nope, ain't no sense wanderin' around worrying that the bottom's gonna drop out. That don't do no one no good, and the thing is, life's too good right now. Too good to mess it up by worrying about shit they can't control. What happened, happened, and they just gotta hang on for the ride to find out what that is.

He quietly shuts the door on his sleeping son's room, and struts back down the hall. Yeah. He's on a high. He opens the door, and finds Juliet, fully dressed, sprawled sideways across the bed, her face pressed into the pillows.

"Sonofabitch," he murmurs. So much for tonight.

He leaves the door to the bathroom open while he brushes his teeth and washes up. Maybe it'll wake her up. No luck. He approaches the bed, and she's breathing loudly, not quite snoring. He lifts her feet, scooting her over, so he'll at least have a place to sleep. He takes off her shoes, tossing them to the floor. The clomp of shoes on carpet rouses her.

"Thought you wanted me to leave them on," she mumbles from the depths of her pillow.

"Yeah, sorta wanted you to be awake, too."

She snuffles into the pillow, then half sits up, blinking into dim light. "I can rally," she offers in a voice clouded with sleep. The pillow's begun to leave a crease over her left cheek. She wipes her lips with the back of her left hand. She's wiping away drool, he realizes. Sexy.

He chuckles. "No thanks. " She's immediately facedown in the pillow again. "You gonna sleep in your dress?" he asks.

"Mrher isza lukwiz," he hears from the pillow.

Whatever. "Love you, too, babe." He pulls her to him. So this is a minor disappointment, but of late, he's getting much better at dealing with minor disappointments. Life's good. Tomorrow he has to go buy the turkey. Tomorrow Juliet has to fight with Miles about pies.

* * *

><p><strong>Now for some blah blah blah from me:<strong>

**Doc B was supposed to play a larger role in the story, appearing in many of the Ann Arbor flashback chapters in one way or the other. I think he was going to give the kids music lessons or something. Then, he didn't. This chapter was kind of purposeless, but for some reason I still liked it, so put it up anyway. At some point, I had in mind this gimmick that any photograph that appeared in the story, you'd eventually see the time it was taken. So, FYI, the picture they took at the opera thing is the one Ben is looking at when he crashes James' 70th b-day party. I think if I kept it as part of the "real" story, I may have tried to do something different. Here I think it comes across as kind of shoehorned in (because it was). But, even so . . .**

**Also, the whole point of this series of events is that they spent so much time obsessing and worrying over how being time travelers could mess with their life, when in reality, the worst thing that ever happened to them was something that could happen to anyone, and it ended up blindsiding them for a little bit. I think that comes across more here than it did in the original, which may be why I still like this chapter as much as I do.**

**OK, bad news/good news:**

**First the bad news: All these chapters that I've just put up? They were all at least somewhat written. Some almost completely, some half-written, some just dialogue, some just outlines, but all had something written. The bad news is that there's not a single other word committed to "paper" for this story. Sorry.**

**Slightly better news: I know what happens next. Ha, so do you if you've read the first story. But, I mean, I have very concrete ideas in my mind about how it actually plays out and I just have to commit it to "paper." I'm actually somewhat motivated about it, so I can pretty much guarantee that it will happen . . . sooner or later.**

**Good news: I forgot completely about this chapter called "Baked Ziti" that I ended up being too lazy to put in to the original, but I think it is fun, and it is almost completely written (all the dialogue is, at least). So that will go up soon.**


	11. Chapter 11

**I had planned these to go in as four separate chapters, interspersed somewhere. But toward the end, I got _lazy_. So, I had all these dialogue bits and ideas but never bothered to flesh them out. So, here:**

* * *

><p><strong>March 8, 1975<strong>

Juliet was supposed to have dinner over at Miles and Jin's tonight, but Miles called an hour ago to bitch about Phil and then to cancel dinner. Juliet can't say she's disappointed – they'd probably end up drinking too much anyway. Besides, Eleanor's working tonight so she has the place to herself. She takes a nice, long bath, throws on shorts and a tank top, then sets up a little pedicure station in the living room. Eleanor would insist on putting down newspaper, for fear of getting polish on the rug. The rug is horrendous deep gold shag, and Juliet doesn't see how getting red polish on it will make it any worse than it already is.

She switches on the hi-fi and hunkers down to tend to her toes. She bops along to the Jackson 5, and it's not weird at all. No, not a bit. Michael Jackson's just a cute little kid, not some tabloid freak show. This is all right. Yeah. She can ignore the gold shag carpet or she can embrace it. She can forget the future and accept the present (past, what_ever_). Yeah. OK. She can do this for as long as it takes. 1975's really not all that bad. Yeah.

She's finished her left foot and is midway through the right when she hears heavy steps on the porch. She's not dressed to receive visitors, so she keeps quiet and scoots a foot to the right to hide behind the chair. Whoever it is will go away once it becomes clear no one's home.

Instead the door busts open. _Crap_, thinks Juliet. It must be Eleanor coming back, and now Juliet's got to explain the red polish on the carpet.

"You got any ziti?" James barks from inside the front door.

What the hell? He thinks he can just barge in here?

She stretches her neck out, twists around from behind the chair, pokes her head over the arm, a little prairie dog popping out of her hole. "Hello, James. Good to see you, too. Welcome, please make yourself at home."

His eyes flash over to her, and for a second, it looks like he might make some lurid comment about her state of (near) undress, her toes spread with a twisted paper towels. The mirth in his eyes fades quickly enough. "Enough with the manners lesson, Emily Post," he sneers. "So? Ziti? You got any?"

"What do you need ziti for?"

He snorts. He looks at her like she's an idiot. He snaps, "'Cause I got a first grader over at my place workin' on her art project. Whaddaya think I need ziti for? I'm makin' dinner."

What's his problem? Although the thought of him patiently helping some little girl glue ziti onto construction paper is laugh out loud funny. Poor kid. When she does laugh, he glares.

"Geez, chill out," she says. She tries to get up off the floor, but her toenails are wet, the carpet is thick shag, her shorts are too short, her tank top is skimpy, and she's not wearing a bra. There's no way to get up gracefully without staining the rug, ruining her pedicure, and/or giving him a show. With her luck, she'd probably do all three. Instead, she stays put on the floor. "Look in the pantry. I don't know about ziti, but I'm pretty sure there's a box of rigatoni in there."

While he's off rummaging through the pantry, she gets up slowly and carefully, then walks, unsteadily on her heels over to the kitchen. He's staring, distraught, at a box of rigatoni. "Sure ya don't got some ziti hidden away somewhere?"

_Yes, yes. My secret cache of ziti. I keep it under armed guard over at the Arrow._ He looks so disappointed, though, so she bites her tongue, keeping her wiseass remarks to herself. Who knows why he gets so emotional about some of the things he does? "Couldn't you just use the rigatoni instead?" she asks, calmly and quietly, putting a hand to his forearm. For a second, it looks like it's going to work like it always does, and she feels him relax under her hand. His eyes travel down to where they're touching, and she starts feeling only half-dressed, when his tension builds again. He's squeezing the box of rigatoni so hard she can hear the raw pasta crunch inside.

"It's gotta be ziti!" he barks. "The recipe's for ziti!"

She tried. She really did. But anyone who can be this childish and angry over pasta deserves to be mocked. "Then change the recipe! Cook the pasta longer, I don't know! Figure it out!"

He shoves the box of rigatoni at her. She grabs it and clasps it tightly to her chest while he huffs, "This is my special recipe for gettin' laid, all right? _All right?_ Happy now?"

She can't stop laughing. "You have a special recipe for getting laid? That's the most obnoxious thing I've ever heard!"

"More obnoxious than seducin' women then stealing all their money?" he counters. She stops laughing. "Yeah, thought so, sweetheart. I ain't the sadly misguided but secretly decent lug you been thinkin'. I'm makin' a meal for her just so I can get laid. I'm horny, and I'm the meanest sonofabitch you ever met. Sorry to bust your bubble, but them's the facts."

She ignores his self-loathing. "I was under the impression that you and Joyce had already consummated your relationship," she breezes (it sometimes gets under his skin when she talks in cool, clinical, and ultra-polite tones).

"Yeah, well, I thought maybe tonight we might even try some new stuff," he leers, waggling his eyebrows (it sometimes gets under her skin when he gets too crass).

"Yeah, well," she returns (and, criminy, do they sound like third graders, or what?), "maybe rigatoni's got even more power than ziti. Ever think of that?"

He stares at the box for a second. "Hmmmm," he muses. "Maybe you're right. Could be. Hmmmm." He nods, lost in thought. "I'm imagin' the way her mouth is gonna feel wrapped around my . . ."

BLEARGH. SHUT UP. "Stop it. Shut up." She raises a hand. "I meant even more powerful than _that_."

He sucks on his teeth. "Nope. Sorry, can't think of anything more powerful than a good blow job."

GROSS. Oh, God, he is totally right. He's nothing but a crude and obnoxious, hormone-addled lout. And just because he's been _nice_ to her for close to a year, and just because he likes to _read_, doesn't mean it's not true. He is _disgusting_. No, not disgusting. _Disappointing_. He disappoints her.

Or he's trying to goad her. She can play that game. She sounds more like a third grader than ever. "No, I meant maybe rigatoni would make you guys fall in loooooooovvee," she stretches out the word, batting her eyelashes and fake swooning. "You could get married and have lots of baaaaaabies."

(Next she's going to sing "James and Joyce sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G." Yes, she is _that _mature. It is, however, 1975. She's not even supposed to be four years old yet, and she's been stuck on this island for nearly four years now. She's allowed to be as immature as she goddamn wants to be. And she's never putting newspaper down again for a pedicure. Screw that. Screw this whole stupid life.)

Of course, _he'_s so mature the thought of what she just said makes him gulp. He blanches, looking at the rigatoni as if it might be the impetus to his worst nightmare come true._ Ha!_ She thinks._ I win! _So, she needles further. "I'm very good with children. You should keep me in mind if you two ever need a babysitter."

"Oh, go to hell, Juliet," he fumes. "You and your wise ass." He storms out the front door. He stops on the porch and turns around. "And I don't for a single minute believe that you're good with kids. You're too damn cold. You're the kind of person kids tell scary stories about."

He turns and walks off immediately, so he misses her raised middle finger, but he must hear her slam her front door. She fumes. _No._ No, she's the kind of person who babysat her way through high school AND her first three years of college. Who got married too young and too impetuously because she wanted to have her own family . . . and soon. Who was more excited at the prospect of being an aunt than she was about her research working. Who's stuck here on this goddamn fucking island that took ALL OF IT away from her. ALL OF IT. Whose "best" "friend" turns out to be the sex-crazed misogynistic pig and supreme #1 asshole she knew he was from the get-go.

She throws the offending box of rigatoni at the wall. The Jackson 5 scratches, skipping to "I Want You Back." The rigatoni box bursts open against the wall, and rigatoni skitters against the kitchen floor. Juliet laughs. Right now it's easier than crying. It's 1975, and she's never ever ever getting off this godforsaken island.

**March 8, 1978**

Goddamn, but Juliet is furious at Rachel right now. Furious. If it's possible there's something more uncomfortable than being nearly nine months pregnant and sitting at a typewriter for six hours a day, she'd like to hear it. And it is allllllllllll Rachel's fault. Rachel is why she's so freaking uncomfortable.

She jabs at the keys, angrily clacking:

_Basaltic lava composition analysis. Rock is porphyritic, potentially silica-undersaturated._

Rachel's fault, Rachel's fault, Rachel's fault, her brain singsongs. If she were thinking rationally, she'd realize that on the long list of people whose fault it is that she's typing inscrutable notes about rocks while looking like an overfilled balloon and sitting in a Spartan office building on the campus of the University of Michigan in 1978, well . . . Rachel probably doesn't even make the top five.

It's the baby making her so freaking uncomfortable, not Rachel. Rachel didn't get her pregnant, or send her back in time, or trap her on the Island or even recruit her to go there in the first place. In fact, the person on top of the "To Blame" list should probably be none other than Juliet Marie Carlson Burke Lafleur.

_No plagioclase crystals readily apparent. Microscopic analysis reveals a network of . . ._

But it _is_ Rachel's fault she's still sitting here typing. If Juliet didn't want to go back, then she could quit the Dharma Initiative altogether. She could be . . . be what exactly? Sitting at home with her feet up, that's what. But then what after that? What's she going to do here, trapped in the past? And that's just it. She can't or won't be trapped in the past forever, so here she sits typing, waiting for the Dharma Initiative to one day send her back.

She's got two more pages on these rocks. Maybe they'll let her go home when she finishes. She can get off early. She types faster.

"A few new construction reports from Hydra," Alan announces, dropping a fat accordion file on her desk. Fat. Feh. Everything around here's just got to be fat, doesn't it?

She decides that it's Alan she hates. This is Alan's fault. She fixes a death glare on him.

He gulps. "I don't make the rules, Juliet. I just hand out the folders."

She stares at the new folder, overstuffed, bulging at the seams. Even the folder of meaningless construction notes mocks her. THAT'S IT. That's it. "Sorry, Alan, but I don't feel well, and I'm taking the rest of the afternoon off."

"But . . ."

Another death glare. All this Others training has to be good for something, right? They never taught her typing. That sure would've been useful.

Click Clack Click Clack. DING! Carriage return. She rolls the last sheet of geology notes off the drum and stacks it neatly on top of the rest of the ridiculous notes. Alan stares at her all the while. "Anything else?" she asks him, daring him to point out the thick construction file.

"Uh, no. So, see you tomorrow?"

Fine. Yes. Yes, fine. "See you then," she says in her politest tone. She waits for him to wander off before she struggles to her feet. She just intimidated him into giving her the afternoon off, but the intimidation might fade if he stayed to watch the absurd amount of effort it takes her to get out of this chair and gather her belongings. "Pregnant Office Work" was not part of The Others curriculum. Maybe because none of the pupils would have survived the first semester (and whose fault is that? Hers? Maybe). Maybe she's glad she's here in Ann Arbor, after all. Maybe maybe maybe.

She spends the rest of the afternoon swimming laps at the aquatic center. The rest of campus semi-tolerates the Dharma Initiative, but doesn't actually welcome them anywhere. No, this benefit (use of the aquatic center and associated campus health centers) comes because she's married to a U-M employee. Or, U-M _thinks_ she's married to one of their employees. Good enough.

She doesn't get back to the apartment until close to six, but James had the day off, so dinner should be his responsibility. He's not a bad cook, just not a particularly creative one. Frozen lasagna, sandwiches, or his favorite, "breakfast for dinner," (i.e., he scrambles some eggs and fries some bacon).

She opens the front door and can smell the lasagna baking. Mmmmmm. Good. Bacon and eggs weren't going to cut it tonight.

James is leaning with his back against the counter, feet crossed at the ankle. He's holding a folded over newspaper at eye level, and wearing his glasses. The pen tucked behind his ear means he must be doing the crossword. He seems almost surprised to see her when she steps into the kitchen. Or, maybe not surprised, but extremely happy. God, he's freaking cute. She steps over to kiss him.

"Take a load off," he instructs. "Supper'll be ready in about twenty minutes."

He sets the paper on the counter then reaches up into the cabinet above the sink where they keep . . . she loses her train of thought, because while reaching up, his shirt lifts, and his jeans slide down, and she gets lost staring. She almost reaches out to stroke his skin there around his belly button. The skin there is soft, but the muscles below so solid, and . . .but, no. No. She really does want to eat in twenty minutes and take a load off now, so, no. And besides, he's pulled down the extra roll of paper towels, and all his clothing is back to its proper place. Mmmmmmm…

* * *

><p>It's not lasagna, but some other baked pasta dish. Whatever it is, it's fabulous, and she says so. "You've been holding out. What is this?"<p>

"It's . . .nothin'. Just, you know, somethin', I. . . don't worry 'bout it."

She wouldn't. It's not a big deal, except he doesn't normally get so stammery or look so embarrassed. "Someone else made this, didn't they? And you're trying to pass it off as yours?" Not that she cares, but that's kind of funny. Like he needs to impress her with his cooking?

"Nah, it's just. . . it's . . . well, it's baked ziti."

Uh huh. OK, that explains nothing. "And?"

"And . . . and I thought you'd get put out about it, but the thing is we only got one egg. I was plannin' on breakfast for dinner. Anyway, I thought I'd do this, even if you'd get put out over it."

She takes another bite. Delicious. "Why in the world would I be put out over it? This is amazing."

He laughs. "Shit. You don't remember. All this time I's worried about how you'd take it, and it turns out you don't even remember." He keeps laughing.

Remember? Remember _what_? She takes another bite and another, and then it hits her. She pushes her plate away. "Oh my god. This is your 'getting laid' recipe, isn't it?"

He holds up his hands. "OK, yeah, but that totally ain't what I want. Or, well, shit, yeah, that _is _what I want, but it ain't why I made the damn recipe. I made it 'cause I knew you'd like it, and like I said, we're 'bout outta eggs."

She stares at him for a few beats. "I'm only put out because you never saw fit to make this for me before. It's fantastic." She pulls the plate back and begins eating again. "Although, I'm not sure it's so good that I'd magically fall into bed with you." OK, there's only the bed and the couch in this apartment, so she _will_ fall in bed with him, but the ziti's got nothing to do with it, and how it ever could makes no sense.

He sighs, relieved she's not going to go bananas over this. He scoops up a big forkful, then lets her in on the secret. "It ain't the ziti itself. It's the story behind it. See, this here's my grandma's special recipe."

All he's told her about his grandmothers before . . .they don't seem to be the type to make baked ziti. She's pretty sure at least one of them never even left the state of Alabama. Fried mac and cheese. That's something his grandma would make. "Really?" she asks, incredulously.

"Nah. My grandmas were both from Alabama, doubt they ever even heard of ziti. I just say that to make it seem special."

"And these women buy it?"

"These women ain't never heard of my grandmas before. Keep in mind, you're comin' at this with way too much knowledge. So, anyway, I talk about how it's my grandma's recipe, and how I ain't never tried to make it before, and I'm sure it ain't good as grandma's. How I've been kinda scared to make it, since grandma died and all, worried it'll remind me too much of her, too much of home, ya know? 'But now that I'm with you, I been feelin' more'n more like home every day. . . ' OK, I can tell by the look on your face, you think it's as cheesy as I do, but trust me, it works."

No, the look on her face is because his 'home' was miserable. But these poor women didn't know that. Yuck. He's a pig. _Was_ a pig. "And that's it?"

"Well I make a big deal 'bout how it's the first time I made it, so when it turns out great, that seems kinda special to them, too. Course it ain't the first time I made it. I mean, you got any idea how many times I pulled this one?"

"No," she says. He looks like he's getting ready to answer. She thought the question was rhetorical. "And I don't want to know."

"Anyway, that's pretty much it. It's basically just a con.

"I can't believe it actually worked."

"Sure it worked. Better'n the truth, wouldn't ya say? Nah, baked ziti's a good con. I mean, Jesus, who'd go to bed with me if they knew the truth? Who I really am and what I done."

She stares at him a few seconds, waiting for him to catch on to the absurdity in that statement. He never does, though, and says, "So, whaddaya say? Baked ziti ain't never failed me before, so maybe after we're done here . . ." he angles his head back toward the bedroom.

She should say no simply on principle. Or because it's been a long day and because she's starting to feel like she should be floated high in the sky over important sporting events. Or to teach him a lesson. Or . . . "We'll see," she hedges, and when he grins, she knows his damn ziti is going to continue its perfect record.

**March 8, 1985**

Juliet can barely keep up with all Jimmy's chattering from the backseat. His first season of peewee hockey is nearing the end. He just made it in under the age cutoff, and the fact that he's younger than everyone else on his team hasn't seemed to hold him back at all. If he's been held back by anything, it's that he's the only kid on the team whose parents know nothing about hockey, despite the pretty penny they picked up betting on the US to win it all in 1980.

As Jimmy rambles on about the just-finished practice, Juliet nods and "mmm hmms" at appropriate intervals, while singing along to The Temptations on the oldies radio station. She prefers oldies to anything on offer in 1985, and plus, listening to the oldies but goodies avoids awkward moments like the time she blurted "I forgot all about this one!" when "Let's Hear it for the Boy" (an 'oldie but goodie,' from her perspective) came on the radio at the neighbors' house. "How'd you forget it? It just came out!" Jan wondered at the time. "It's from that new _Footloose_ movie."

_I guess, you'd say, what can make me feel that way?_ sing the Temptations.

"Coach don't want Ryan to get hurt, so he ain't gonna let him play center till next year," Jimmy states.

_My girl. Talkin' 'bout my girl . . ._

"Coach _doesn't_ want Ryan to get hurt, so he _isn't going to_ let him play center," Juliet corrects

"But . . ." Jimmy starts. He's going to argue that his dad talks like that. James has been remarkably good these past seven years . . . good at keeping his language clean and G-rated (or PG at least). Not so good at proper grammar. She can't expect everything.

She cuts Jimmy off. "Dad's from Alabama. That's how they talk. You're from Michigan." She hates to throw the entire population of the state of Alabama to the Strunk and White wolves, but better that than explaining that Dad speaks like an uneducated hick.

Luckily they're pulling into the garage before he has a chance to complain further. She helps him stow his gear on his sports equipment shelf. Hockey, it turns out, is gear-heavy, and his "sports shelf" is actually three shelves in the corner. They enter the house through the kitchen. It's warm. It smells wonderful. Good. She'd put together a casserole dish of enchiladas, but forgot to remind James to put it in. Seems he remembered on his own.

Jimmy bounces through the kitchen and into the den. "Wash up for dinner!" she shouts after him.

"Hey, Mom!" Rachel calls from the dining room table. Juliet waves to her.

James pops out from the pantry with a box of macaroni in one hand and a bag of farfalle tucked under his arm. "This all the pasta we got?" he demands. _Good to see you, too_, she thinks.

"Uh . . ." the question confuses her. Aren't the enchiladas in the oven?

"Don't we got some ziti somewhere? I think that'd be perfect."

_Ziti. Oh._ "Why?"

He catches her suspicious tone. He laughs, then looks to make sure the kids are out of earshot. "'Cause I'm horny, and ziti's a failsafe."

"Did you forget about last night?"

He brushes that aside with, "Last night was vanilla." She'd take offense, but it kind of was. He continues, "All right. No, seriously, Rachel's workin' on something or 'nother for school, and all we got are elbows and bowties."

"Dad's doing all the gluing!" Rachel shouts from the dining room. "He doesn't want me to get glue on the table."

Juliet states, "So what you're telling me is that you're helping a first grader with her art project."

"Thanks for the rundown, Jane Pauley. Yes, that's exactly what I'm sayin'."

"I . . ." she starts. He doesn't remember. How they got from _there_ to _here_ sometimes blows her mind. Sometimes normal life is even more surreal than time travel. "I think that's all we've got. Sorry."

"Mom, how come I can't have a baby sister? Dad says I can't," Rachel calls from the dining room. Juliet rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Rachel spent the afternoon at her friend Jenny's house. Jenny has a little sister, and this is a semi-regular request. Juliet locks eyes with James. That question has multiple answers that touch on time travel, human biology, and her dad's secret sordid past (future).

"Because we don't want to be out-numbered." Not really the reason why, but, even so, it's mostly true.

"Then how about a pony?" _Well played, Rachel._

"We don't got room for a pony," James grumbles.

"How about a dog, then?" Jimmy's back from washing up.

Did they tag team this or what? What was she _just_ saying about being outnumbered? "No," she answers, opening the silverware drawer and taking out four forks. She hands them to Jimmy. "Start setting the table."

**March 8, 2006**

"So, that's it," Jimmy finishes, closing the lid on his aquarium. "Three times a week, and if you forget, or don't make it over or something, you can double up one time. I wouldn't recommend doing that more than once, though." Juliet nods patiently. Jimmy adds, "Chances are you won't see Descartes at all. He's always hiding somewhere."

"You have a fish named Descartes?" she asks.

"Sure," he smiles and winks. "Gotta keep the tradition alive."

Let's hope she can keep his fish alive. He's going to be gone for two weeks. One week on some science teacher conference, another on spring break with his buddies. Cozumel. She wants to know why he's not taking his girlfriend with him. Also, why he's not asking his girlfriend to feed his fish and water his plants. She's afraid to ask, though. She hates that girl – woman – and doesn't want to get her hopes up. Plus doesn't want to be too "overbearing mom" about it all. So, she listens patiently while he explains the procedure for what to do if the power goes out, and the filter stops working. He doesn't explain how she's going to know from _her_ house if the power went out in _his_ apartment.

"And that's it," he concludes.

"OK. Did you stop your mail?" she asks him. He nods. "And your paper delivery?"

"I don't get a paper, Mom."

Right, right. She's an old-fashioned geezer, not some tech-savvy youngster. Yet, most of her adult life her "tech savvy" has served her very very well.

"What about your thermostat? Did you re-set it?"

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, Mom, yeah."

Sorry, son, but if you ask your _mother_ to come look after you apartment, then you better expect to be _mothered _about it. Otherwise, you should've asked that woman you call girlfriend.

"Last thing I gotta do is take out the trash," he says. He pulls the full bag from the kitchen trash canister and ties it off. "I'll put a fresh bag in. 'Case you gotta toss anything out when you're over here," he says. He reaches up into the cabinet above the sink where he keeps a box of Hefty bags. Reaching up, his shirt lifts, and his jeans slide down over his hips, and . . .

_My God_, she thinks. Can he not find a pair of pants that fits right? Or shell out a few measly dollars for a _belt_? Or . . . she looks again. Has he lost weight? Is he too thin? What does he feed himself? Is he eating enough? Is it healthy?

He snaps a new bag open and lines the kitchen canister with it. She watches closely. No, he looks pretty solid. But that doesn't mean he's eating properly. She can ask, can't she? She has that right, doesn't she? Except, she likes that he asked her to help like this, and if she gets too overprotective and weird, he might not ask again. But if there was a way to figure this out without coming right out and asking . . . Aha!

"Do you have anything in your fridge you need to clean out before you go?"

"Shit," he grumbles.

"Language . . ." she warns. And he might now start arguing that Dad uses that kind of language. She cuts him off. "I didn't raise your father. I raised you, and I expect you to. . ."

He laughs, interrupting her, "Yeah, good thing Grandma LaFleur didn't live long enough to be confronted with the creation she raised."

_Yeah, uh huh. Not really. And there is no such person as a "Grandma LaFleur," so ._ .

"I'm guessing you mean you forgot to clean out your fridge," Juliet steers the conversation back to the food.

"Right." He reopens the full trash bag slouching on the kitchen floor. She opens his fridge. She peers in, looking for signs of healthy living. She pulls out three containers of Chinese takeout and dumps them in the trash bag he's holding open for her. There's a package of individually wrapped Kraft American cheese slices. No need to throw those out. They could be Dharma-era and still good. That stuff's indestructible. There's broccoli in the crisper, and a bag of baby carrots, too. _Good._ A large pizza box with one slice of pepperoni. Neither healthy nor an efficient use of fridge space. The second shelf has a glass baking dish covered with aluminum foil. She pulls it out and lifts the foil on one corner. This is something homemade. She's glad to see it. She pulls it out.

"What's this?" she asks, stooped into the cold refrigerator microclimate. She pulls the foil up the rest of the way, and has her answer before he gets a chance to say it.

"Baked ziti," he answers. "It's Dad's recipe. You really should try it."

She turns to him and straightens to full height. Is he teasing her? James? Both of them? Neither? What exactly did James tell their son about this 'magic' dish? Jimmy stands silently, giving nothing away. He's not even blinking, and his face is perfectly still. That is . . . _unnerving_ is what it is.

"I have tried it," she answers in her best 'give-nothing-away' doctor's tone. She stares back at him. _Two can play at this game, young man. I know where you got that unnerving little still face habit, mister._ She doesn't change her tone (or lack of tone) when she pleads, "Tell me you aren't lying to these women."

"What women?"

"The ones you make that ziti for."

"Oh," he answers. He knows she knows what the ziti's all about, and now she knows that he does, too. Then his face twists in confusion. "_Lie?_ What would I lie to them about?"

"He didn't tell you that?" she asks. "That was a big part of his shtick. Some sad story about his dead grandma's recipe."

"They actually fell for that?"

"Apparently," she answers. Although, truth be told, who's to say if they fell for the story or the dimples or the abs, or the wrists and forearms . . .

"No, of course I don't lie about it," Jimmy says. "I told one girl it was my dad's recipe. That turns out to be a half-truth. It's straight outta the _Joy of Cooking_. Did you know that? Word for word. He showed me."

One girl, he said. How many girls have there been? And, most importantly, "Please tell me you didn't make this for Millie."

"Tilly, Mom. I know you don't like her, but you don't have to pretend you can't remember her name. And, yes, I did make it for her. She was over here a few nights ago."

_Why isn't she taking care of your apartment while you're away? Why doesn't she make sure you eat healthy? Why am I taking you to the airport?_ "I think she's too old for you," is what she says.

"She's not that old. Not like she was born in the Eisenhower Administration or anything."

No, she was born in the Nixon Administration – _JUST LIKE I WAS_. "It's just been my experience that no good comes out of being involved in someone older than you."

Jimmy responds with another of his silent stares. She stares back until he shakes his head. "The stuff you say, sometimes, Mom. Makes no sense. You realize Dad's older than you are, right?"

"Chronologically, yes, but maturity-wise, I'd say we're close to equal," she says. Jimmy laughs. "No, I wasn't talking about your father. I had a whole life before I met him, you know." And that's maybe giving away more than she wants to. "All I'm saying, Jimmy, I think you can do better. For one thing, If she really loved you, she'd make sure you eat better than this," she states, dumping a Styrofoam takeout box of chicken wings into the trash can.

Later that night, she's at home, grumbling to James about Tilly.

"Need me to draw a picture for ya? I don't get why it's so hard for you to see why he's interested in that girl."

"She's rude and doesn't really care about him. That's all I know."

"She's got big tits. What more you need to know than that?"

She glares at him, crossing her arms. "You are a pig. Maybe you think that way, but he doesn't."

"He's 26. Of course he does. And yeah, I do think that way. I mean, Jesus, lookit who I married."

"Go to hell," she fumes, turning on her heels to the kitchen.

Five minutes later, he's standing in front of her with a Netflix envelope in his hand. "_Walk the Line_ came in today. Wanna do movies tonight?"

She's supposed to be mad at him – for being a misogynistic pig, for thinking their son is the same – but she supposes he's right. Maddening, but right. "I'll make the popcorn," she says.

"Hey," he says, reaching out to her. "Not that it ain't true, 'cause it is, but you realize I say stuff like that 'cause I think it's fun to piss you off."

He's known her for more than thirty years. Of course, he knows exactly how to press every single one of her buttons – good and bad.

And vice versa: "I know," she says. "I realize that's how men think. Probably how Anson thinks about your daughter, I guess."

His eyes narrow. She can see the Tyvek paper on the Netflix disc wrinkling where he strangles it. The muscles twitch in his jaw.

"OK, I'll get working on the popcorn," she says.

* * *

><p><strong>So, FYI, Rachel's friend Jenny (and her little sister Michele)? At some point in the story one of them (hadn't decided who) was going to re-connect with Jimmy at Rachel's wedding, hook up with him, then live happily ever after. I mean, <em>real<em> early this was my idea. But then it wasn't. When it was my idea, I had all sorts of things planned for Jenny and Michelle, and they were going to appear a little more often. Then, not.**

**I had the first part of this (the 1975 bit) saved under the file name "argument" which lead me to believe I had their big blowout from post-Thanksgiving 1981 written, but turns out, not so. So, now there really and truly is nothing committed to paper. Stand by. It _will_ happen sometime. Eventually.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Would've put this up a few days ago, except I was being a doofus and couldn't remember how to use the site. Duh. Also, the site's kind of different and stuff, and, well . . . I COULDN'T FIGURE IT OUT.**

**November 25 1981**

"I'm telling you, she's not coming," Miles patiently explains.

"How come?" James barks into the phone.

"Because we broke up? Duh?"

"Broke up? Whaddaya mean broke up? When? How come you didn't say nothin'?"

"I sort of thought you figured it out when I didn't bring her over for Juliet's birthday."

Yeah, he'd wondered about that. Even asked about it a few times, but Miles always avoided the question. "Listen, Miles. I don't know what the deal is, but she's a sweet girl. So, why don't you get your head outta your ass, and apologize or whatever you need to do to get her back. Don't be a shithead. Buy her flowers. Tell her you're sorry." (Like he's some sorta expert on making relationships work, when his record is something like, oh, about 1 for 100.)

"I broke up with her because I was tired of lying to her. I was tired of pretending to be someone I wasn't."

"Shit! Is that all? You know, I lied to like 99.9% of the women I ever been with."

"Yeah, and how'd that work out for you?"

James doesn't have an answer, so he silently fumes. He's mad that Miles didn't tell him. He's mad that Miles and Claudia broke up. He's mad because he thinks maybe a little of it is his fault. Isn't he the one who roped Miles into living this life? He's just plain mad. Mad. Good thing he's spent most of his life with "mad" as his default emotion.

Miles speaks. "Put Juliet on. Didn't you say she had something to say about pies?"

James doesn't bother to say goodbye or see you tomorrow or happy early Thanksgiving. Instead he shoves the phone at Juliet who's standing at the kitchen counter. "Here" he snarls, handing it over.

He can hear her murmuring to Miles in low tones. Calm tones. He suddenly remembers the night he came home to find Miles on the couch, and he gets even angrier. He doesn't like the idea of them going behind his back. He remembers her joke about an affair, and while he realizes that's exactly what it was (a joke), it pisses him off royally that Miles could break up with his girlfriend, fret about lying to her, and choose to share it all with _Juliet_. It pisses him off royally that Juliet wouldn't let him in on the secret.

"Excuse me," Juliet says, and he takes a step to the right, so that she can replace the receiver on the wall-mounted base.

Her forehead's all furrowed, her eyes tight. She looks pale and worried, or tense, and he knows what that's all about. "So you knew, huh?" he asks/accuses. "'Bout Miles and Claudia? And yet didn't say nothin' to me about it. Nothin' at all."

"What did you think when he didn't bring her over on my birthday?" she asks, letting out a deep breath.

Same fuckin' excuse Miles had. He bitches, "What? Didn't think I could handle it?" And, of course, they were right, weren't they? 'Cause here he is . . . not handling it. Them two was right, and that makes him even angrier.

His face must be clouded with fury, because she actually winces. "You tend to make mountains out of molehills, James. So, Miles broke up with Claudia. . . . It's . . ." she stops, sucks her teeth. _Oh, this oughta be good. Scared to say it, huh? Well come on, let's have it._ She grabs the counter edge, lets out another deep breath, winds up to let him have it. "It's not the end of the world. Don't take everything so personally, OK? Just . . ." she shakes her head, and the fight seems to drain out of her.

"Just?" he prods, and he knows exactly what he's doing (pushing for a fight), and it seemed like she was up for it, then . . . then not. Maybe he should call up Miles again.

"Just nothing. You know what? I'm going to bed."

"It ain't even 9 o'clock." She shrugs at that piece of news and leaves the kitchen without another word. "Yeah, well, sweet dreams. Sleep tight," he grumbles to the now-empty kitchen.

He pulls a beer out of the fridge and takes a few sips. He lifts the phone to call Miles. He _will_ have a fight with someone. He _will_. He starts dialing, then realizes he doesn't want to spend the night leaning up against the kitchen wall. He'll be happy as a clam when cordless phones make their debut.

He takes his beer to the couch. OK, OK. They're right. He _does_ tend to make big deals out of everything. He _does_ tend to take things too personally. He tries reading some, but can't get through more than a few pages. He tries the TV, flipping through the channels (all four of them). He gets pissed again about lack of remote control. He goes back to the kitchen for another beer, decides against it, and paces back into the den. He tries his book again, but can't seem to get into it.

_OK, right. It's not the end of the world_, he tells himself. Miles is kind of right. Lying all the time, that really got to him back in the day . . . and he was a _pro_. All right. All right. He calms his nerves and manages to get through two chapters.

Juliet doesn't stir when he finally gets in bed, which is unusual, but he's glad for it. She's been in for more than two hours, and he wouldn't want to wake her. He thinks he'll be able to fall asleep OK. Yeah, he's calmed down now. They were right, and he wished they'd told him, but he gets why they didn't, too, and OK. OK, he'll be able to sleep.

Except his sleep is horrific. Dreams worse than he remembers ever having before. Juliet saying "It's not the end of the world," and that's supposed to be about Miles and Claudia, and she's so fucking calm about it, suggesting they go out for coffee, like, _what_? _You mean with Miles and Claudia? Or only Claudia? Or just the two of us? WHAT?_ But it really is the end of the world, and there's no reason to be calm. Earth is collapsing under him, and piles of dead decomposing bodies, and pulling Juliet close, and there's blood. Everywhere there is blood.

_No. No, you're dreaming. You're dreaming. Wake up, wake up, wake up, _his semi-conscious screams at him.

* * *

><p><strong>November 26, 1981<strong>

Jimmy dances from foot to foot. "I gotta goooooo," he whines.

"Hold on, hold on," Juliet urges him. She fumbles in her purse for the key. Why is it so hot? God, she's burning up.

"Pleaaaaaaaase!" he whines.

Why is it so hot here? Isn't it . . . _Thanksgiving?_ Isn't it supposed to be cold? And it's not simply hot. It's soggy and humid, and ohmygod, she is dripping sweat. Why is it so hot? And, hold up . . .she stares down at Jimmy. When did he get potty trained? And so big? And . . .Ah! Her hand lands on the key ring, down in the depths of her bag.

She unlocks the door and swings it wide open. The not-Jimmy kid runs through the entrance calling out, "Thank you, Aunt Juliet!"

She can feel the dry, cool, air from the house, but she stands, hot, sweaty, and fending off mosquitos on the front porch. Oh! She's not confused anymore. Rachel's on a cruise with her new boyfriend. Juliet hasn't met him yet, but maybe when they return. She's babysitting for the week. All those babysitting jobs finally paying off.

She enters the house, shaking her head over her confusion. Why had she been confused, and who the heck is this Jimmy person she was just thinking about?

Her cell phone chirps, and she digs into the bag once again.

"Hello?" she answers.

"Hey, Mom."

_Oh, that's right. Jimmy is her son. Right. OK. _

"Hey there . . ." _But how did he learn how to use a phone? And _**talk**_? _" . . . sweetheart. How are things back home?" HOW OLD ARE YOU? _WHAT IS GOING ON?_

He sighs. "OK, I guess. Dad was almost an hour late to pick me up."

PICK YOU UP FROM _WHERE? ? ?_ "That. . . uh . . . that doesn't sound like him." He just lost out on a promotion because he spends too much time with you guys.

"What are you talking about, Mom? You don't have to stick up for him, you know."

"I know . . . I . . ." _I'm so confused._

Julian chooses that moment to walk back into the living room. He looks pale and slick with sweat. He clutches his sides. "I don't feel so good," he moans before doubling over and falling to his knees.

Forget confusion. Juliet springs into action. "Listen, sweetheart, I need to go. I'll talk to you later, OK?" She punches the off button, and runs to Julian. He's lying on the floor with his knees pulled into his chest. He's moaning and sweaty. Uh oh. OK, she probably should call 911. She picks her phone off the floor, but, wait . . . maybe she should call on the home phone? Don't they have location tracking or something?

And hold on just one second, here . . . WHY DOES SHE HAVE A CELL PHONE? It's . . . they . . . cell phones haven't been invented yet, and Juliet relaxes immediately. This is a dream. These hyper-realistic dreams of some washed-out future with cell phones and microwaves and people she knows (or has known) randomly floating in and out. And, OK. Julian is going to be just fine. He's just a dream. All she needs to do is wake up, and this will all be over.

Julian grits his teeth and curls in tighter on himself. "It's going to be OK," she tells him. "Once I wake up, this will all be over." _Just wake up, Juliet. Come on . . . come on. Wake up. _

"Come on baby, come on wake up." Huh. She's talking to herself in James' voice.

She's swimming up out of the haze. She can feel the cool air. She's not in Miami anymore, even though she still feels the sticky heat. Her clothes are sticking to her. Wake up, wake up, and she's almost awake, not quite, and Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh. . . whatever it was Julian had? That side-clutching, sweat-inducing, knock-you-on-the-floor pain? Uggggggggghhhh. It hits her like a freight train, and this waking up wasn't such a great idea after all. _Go back to sleep_, she thinks. _Don't wake up. Go back to sleep._ There's no pain in the dream.

She's asleep again. No longer dreaming of Miami. Dreaming of nothing, except she hears James (is this part of the dream? Or real? Or?). "911? Yeah, uh, yeah. I got . . . I got. . . uh, shit. Ya just gotta please come. I, uh . . .we're at 323 Larchmont . . ."

No, he has it all wrong. There's no need to call. This is all a dream, and besides, Julian's in Miami, not here in Michigan, so he's giving them the wrong address anyway, and it's probably just food poisoning, and if she could just wake up, she could explain everything. Except waking up _hurts_.

* * *

><p>The paramedics are all here now. To take Julian away? So it's more than food poisoning? Or, no, it was a dream, right? So . . . why? Why is she on the stretcher? <em>She's <em>not the one who's sick. She is _so confused_. Rachel's never going to let her babysit again. Rachel! Shit! Should she call her? Or wait to find out what's going on? She tries to ask, but her voice isn't working or her brain isn't or the connection between voice and brain is missing. All she manages is "Rachel?"

The one who seems to be in charge, or maybe he's just the loudest one, or the one they're all deferring to, or maybe it's just that he's the closest to her, but anyway, he's the one who answers. "Miles is here, sweetheart. He's gonna stay with her. She'll be OK."

WHAT? What the _hell_ is he talking about? No, it's just, he didn't understand her. She tries shaking her head. "No, no," she says. _Just let me explain, please. Wait. My brain's not working. Sir? Sir?_

He shushes her and pats her on the forehead, and that's sweet and all, but is it professional? Are paramedics supposed to do that? Probably not. You know why? Because this is all some wacked-out crazed fever dream. And if waking up hurts so goddamn much, then maybe she should stop fighting it and go all the way back to sleep. That sounds like a wonderful idea. This will all make sense when she wakes up.

* * *

><p>She's disoriented and isn't quite ready to open her eyes. So tired. So very, very tired. She listens carefully. Beeping. Intercom announcements. Talking in the next room. She puzzles the clues together, and . . .Got it! Figured it out! Hospital. She's . . . is she on call? That doesn't seem right, but she's lying down, and she's just waking up. So . . . is she coming on shift? Or going off?<p>

And why does she feel like she's been hit by a bus? Heh. Hit by a bus. Wasn't someone hit by a bus? Or, no, no, that's just what Dad always says when he's making a point about living life: "You may get hit by a bus tomorrow." "Listen girls, just in case I walk out this door and get hit by a bus, you need to know . . ." Or, when he's complaining about someone: "Only way he's going to leave me alone is if he gets hit by a bus." Dad's always going on about getting hit by a bus. Juliet's picked it up, too. Or, no. She did. She used to, but then . . . didn't someone actually . . .? Or did she? Is that why she feels this way?

No, no. Think. _Think._ What do you remember? Rachel. Something about Rachel. She was worried about Rachel. That's the last thing she remembers.

She realizes the best thing to do is open her eyes. There's hospital equipment in here. Is it attached to her? If so, why? No, it's not. Or . . . now, wait . . . what is this? She stares at the pulse monitor and IV stand. Attached to her? She can't tell, and can't raise her head to look at her arms. She looks again at the equipment at her bedside. Those are . . . that stuff is extremely outdated. Probably twenty years behind the times. More. _Where am I?_

Think. _Think._ Rachel. Something about Rachel. She was . . . she was on a cruise? With her boyfriend. Yes. Did . . . did she have a relapse? Is this some third-world Caribbean hospital? Is it safe?

She needs to find Rachel. She needs to find out what's going on. She tries to sit up, but a wave of pain washes over her. If Rachel's the one who's sick, why is Juliet so weak?

There's someone in the room with her, and he must have noticed her trying to get up. He gets out of his chair, and walks to stand near her head. He needs a shave and a haircut. And some better clothes. Rachel's new boyfriend? Yeah, he seems her type. _Sorry we have to meet like this_, she thinks, especially after he smiles down at her, because whatever else, he's very, very good looking. _Way to go, Rach._

His eyes are bloodshot and red rimmed. Is he a drug user? Or worse, has he been crying? What does that mean? It must mean something's horribly wrong. Is Rachel OK? She tries to ask, but "Rachel?" is all that comes out. It's like her brain doesn't control her mouth anymore.

He shakes his head. "Shhh. It's all right, babe."

Oh. One of those types, huh? Gotta use some nickname for every gal he meets? _Babe?_ Ugh. He's lucky she doesn't have the energy to sock him. Besides, she's got to conserve her energy to ask her next question.

She doesn't understand _why_ she's weak and sore, but she knows she _is_. She knows enough to stop, think, and gather her thoughts. Those thoughts boil down to: _I need to know where my sister is and if she's OK. _Exactly that. Just tell me_,_ Scruffy (and who's using nicknames now?): _I need to know where my sister is and if she's OK._

"I need," she starts, marshaling her strength, but it's not working, she's fading out already, and what in the _hell_ is going on? Come on, come on. She tries again, "my sister. . . OK?"

Well, that didn't come out right, and there were a lot of missing words there, but he'll get the gist, right? She looks imploringly at him.

"I can't do that," he says, sadly. Her heart starts hammering in alarm. Why not? WHAT IS WRONG WITH HER? "You know I would if I could, baby, you know that, right?"

No, I do NOT know that. I do not know anything about what you would or wouldn't do. And watch who you're calling "baby," _asshole._ There's a nickname for you.

But she can only shake her head. She is so tired. So very tired. She thinks the thing to do is go back to sleep. She can deal with this jerk when she has more energy. Make him tell her where her sister is.

* * *

><p>In her dream she's falling, falling, falling, and Juliet wakes with a start. Where . . .? She's in a hospital, she realizes almost right away, and while she would like to know why, her first concern is her children. Where are they? Are they OK?<p>

She stirs and tries to speak. Her mouth is dry, and her vocal chords take a second to spring to life. Her first word, meant to be 'hello?,' comes out as a raspy cough. James immediately leaps from a chair at her bedside.

"Hey," he says softly, patting her hair.

"Where are the kids?" she rasps. She blinks against the light. "Are they OK? What happened? Why are we here?"

"They're fine," he answers. "They're home and Miles is with 'em. They're just fine."

"Good," she smiles. _That's a relief._ "But . . ."

_You didn't answer all my questions._

What is she doing here? Now she really wants to know, and she puts her mind to work, trying to remember anything. A car accident? She was driving the kids home from the grocery store yesterday. Was she in an accident? She remembers driving the car. She remembers feeling really hot. Did she get sick and lose control? No, no, because she remembers being home and feeling hot and jelly-legged there, too. She remembers not bringing all the groceries in. She got James to unload the car. She still felt hot, even after the kids went to bed, she felt hot and jelly-legged and crampy and. . .

"No," she whispers. She closes her eyes. The light is too bright and everything is too loud. _No. No. It's something else. _She feels James's hand on the top of her head, then under her chin, his thumb rubbing softly at the swell of her cheekbone. When she opens her eyes, she sees he's crouched down beside her.

"No," she says. That's . . . that's _not fair_. She's given up her life, her sister, her colleagues, her career . . . she gave it all up and that's fine, but that's all in another time. She has to give up something here (now), _too_? No. NO. She is tired of giving up the things she wants. This – she wanted this. This wasn't a happy accident or some perceived need. This was something she _wanted_. Is she not allowed to want things?

No. It's not fair. It's not happening. It's not true, but the look on James' face tells her it is true, and she's reminded how much he wanted this, too. How this was his idea. How he reacted to the news of Miles and Claudia's breakup. How she'll need to be steady for him.

How will she be steady for him? How? How can she possibly do that when right now her heart is shattered in a billion pieces?

When she closes her eyes again, hot tears roll down her face. She needs to be calm and steady and reassuring. For him, for her babies, for her family, but not right now. Not yet. She lets out a single, strangled sob.

"Hey, listen, Juliet," James says, glancing at the door. She figures he's getting ready to spout some over-matched cliché. Instead he says, "Before the doc comes in, you gotta know, there was like a hemorrhage or something. You lost a ton of blood, and they wanted to do a transfusion, but I said no. Because . . ."

"Hello?" a young man in scrubs and a white lab coat peers around the door. "Mrs. LaFleur, it's good to see you awake."

She nods at him. She turns back to James, his eyes boring holes in her. _What are you trying to tell me? What do I need to know?_

The young doc flips through her chart. He takes a seat on a rolling stool and uses his feet to walk himself over to her bedside. On the other side of the bed, James stands up so that he's looking down at the doctor. He's still holding her hand, though.

The doctor begins. "I'm Dr. Witter, and I'm so sorry this had to happen on Thanksgiving." _Oh, how astute you are, Dr. Witter. You hit the nail on the head. That's why I'm crying: I just missed the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. I'll have to wait an entire year to see the gigantic floating Snoopy. _Really? _Can you tell me a day this would have been fine to happen?_

Dr. Witter clears his throat, and when he shifts his weight forward, his rolling stool bounces and squeaks. "I am so sorry to have to see you like this, and I guess you know what's happened, but just so you know, you, uh, well, you, you, uh . . . " _Oh, spit it out_, she thinks. _It's simple enough. _" . . . had a miscarriage," Dr. Witter finishes.

_Right. I'd figured that out, but thank you_.

"I'm so sorry, I wish, I uh . . . uh . . ." he starts stammering again.

God, what is his problem? This happens ALL THE TIME. How many times has she had to deliver this particular piece of news? _Sure beats death after death after death in the second trimester, let me tell you that, Dr. Witter. How is __this__ so difficult for you? _Because he's so young. He's no doubt the youngest doc they have. It's why he's stuck with Thanksgiving Day duty.

Once upon a time it was the first time she had to lay this bit of news on some previously hopeful, now devastated no-longer-mother-to-be. That first time wasn't easy. Nor the second. The third got a little easier, and on and on. It happens ALL THE TIME. You get over the stammering and sadness. It just happens. It is what it is, and you need to be clinical about it and . . . _that's it._ That's her solution right there: she just needs to be clinical about this. Be clinical, and she can be the calming presence her husband will need. She can be the mother her children depend on. She can't be a tearful, sobbing mess. She was once, and can't be now. Her family needs her.

She can totally do this. Except Dr. Witter rolls into his next fascinating topic: "Have you heard of Louise Brown? She's three now. You may know of her as the 'test tube baby.' Women your age . . . well . . ." he leans forward, eyes alight with interest and excitement. "The field is relatively new, but I think you would be . . . " and blah blah blah blah blah, he gives her the basics of Infertility Treatment for Dummies. Half of what he's saying is wrong. Or will be, once that group at Tufts figures a few things out, but on and on he goes, and talk about adding insult to injury. SHUT UP, Dr. Witter. Shut up.

"I don't think she needs to be hearin' all this right now," James, mind reader, says.

Dr. Witter looks at him sharply, seeming to silently accuse him. Of what? Interrupting him? "Mrs. LaFleur," he says. "I'd like to talk to you about a few things. You feel weaker than you need to. We wanted to do a transfusion, but your husband refused consent. I still feel like it wouldn't hurt to give you a little help. A pint or two. You'd feel much better." He glares at James again.

"I . . . " she starts. She looks at James. Why would he say no? Wouldn't he want anything to help her get better? Is this about his distrust of doctors? Why? He stares at her, imploring her to . . . something. . . This. This is what he was trying to say before the doctor came in. But what? She feels weak and tired again, and doesn't want to think too hard. If a pint of blood helps . . .

"So, how about it?" Dr. Witter asks. He turns to the nurse who slipped in to take vital signs during his little infertility lecture. "AB positive," he tells her, ordering the procedure, before Juliet has a chance to say anything about it. James crushes her hand, shakes his head at her. What is his problem? Why wouldn't . . .

"No." She says. "No. No, that won't be necessary, thank you." HIV. They don't test for it yet, do they? James grip on her hand loosens. Oh, thank God he thought of that.

"The procedure is . . ." Dr. Witter starts, but Juliet cuts him off.

"No. Trust us. We're from the future."

Dr. Witter shakes his head, turns to the nurse, sighs. "Let's back off on the Demerol."

She immediately reaches up to the IV, and twists the valve. Juliet wants to beg her not to. To say she's not crazy or drugged. She really is from the future. And that wouldn't work. So she'll just have to endure the pain. _Like always_, the pessimistic and hurt side of her brain insists. The happy and content side of her brain tries to remind her of James reading a story to Rachel or Jimmy wrapped up in a towel after his bath or even of Miles sitting at her table laughing. _Not like always_, it says. _But for now._

* * *

><p><strong>(I think Dr. Witter doesn't have the greatest bedside manner, and all his interest in fertility treatment lead him to enter the research field. I think if Juliet didn't have other things on her mind, she'd realize she met an older version of him at several conferences. Of course, she doesn't realize she already met older James until more than 10 years from now, so I think she can be forgiven.)<strong>


	13. Chapter 13

**So, angry/sad James probably curses. A LOT. (and is a wee bit racist)**

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><p>He did OK at first. No, better than OK. No, he did fuckin' great at first. Boy, he handled that shit. Crazy wacked-out dreams and waking to a bed full of blood? Handled it. Called 911. Didn't lose his mind. Got Miles to come stay with the kids. At the hospital and then waiting to hear . . . handled it. Didn't bark at anyone, not the paramedics, not the flunkeys in the ER. Acted respectful to the doc. Didn't call him Doogie Howser, even if he thought it. Waited while Juliet was wherever they took her. Didn't smash or kick anything. Thought fast about the blood transfusion. Was calm and gentle and stoic when she came to, even though he had to listen to her moan for her sister. He wrangled a ride home from a cop he knew. He sent Juliet up to bed while he dealt with the kids. Handled that, too . . . dinner and bath and bedtime.<p>

Then Miles there, looking at him with sad eyes. Pity. Well, fuck that. Fuck it. Pity's something he _can't _handle, and don't wanna. All this is his own damn fault anyway for talking her into it. For being a criminal asshole who don't deserve a perfect life. Like every shitty fucked-up thing that's _ever _happened to him, it's all his fault, and if Miles can't see that, it's pretty clear Juliet can, or why else would she be whimpering for her sister?

Once he kicked Miles out, he figured that'd be it, but damn if he forgot that he's like part of a whole fuckin' community now, neighbors and colleagues and friends, and hell, no, that's not the end of it. That Friday Mrs. Dawkins coming over asking what the fuss was about the other night, gettin' her Gladys Kravitz on, like it's any of her fuckin' business, goddamn nosy neighbor. Never mind that he and Juliet both were over at the Dawkins' house in the middle of the night back around Halloween. Back when Mr. D had his little heart scare. Juliet staying at the hospital with them, James salting their sidewalk during that late-fall snow last week. No, never mind that. What pissed him off is old Mrs. D volunteering to take the kids over to her house "so you two can get some rest," like she thought he couldn't fucking handle his own goddamn family. So he shooed her outta there and not two hours later heard Juliet on the phone telling her that she'd love it if Mrs. D could help out "once James goes back to work."

Yes, back to work. Kinda awesome, really, 'cause he wears a uniform and badge (OK, sewed-on university patch) and that means he gets to be as much of an asshole as he wants to be. Normally he's pretty jovial, flirting with the college girls, joshing with the frat boys, "All right, party's over fellas, move along." That gets the job done more often than not. Honey catchin' more flies than vinegar and all that shit. 'Cept now he wants to be a giant unholy asshole, and he's got the power to do it. He barks at his co-workers, yells at traffic violators, smashes underage drinkers' beer cans and flasks.

Turns out, none of this makes him feel any better. Better'n pity, he supposes, but nothin's worse than comin' home to pity. Juliet with those giant, sad, blue eyes. He'd been back at work four days (it'd been a week since . . .since . . . _whatever_, he can't actually say it) when he came home to her asking "Are you doing OK?," putting a hand to his arm. _She_ pitied him?_ She _did? She's the last person on the planet who should pity him. He's the one who fucking did it to her. It's_ his_ fault she's so pale she's practically see-through. And _she's_ pitying_ him_?

"I don't fuckin' need your pity," he growled.

She blinked a few times, looking a little stunned. "OK, then," she agreed, setting her mouth in a hard line.

He realized he probably took it too far, and ever since then, she's dropped the pity act. If it even was an act, and if it wasn't an act, and she actually _does _pity him, isn't that worse? It's been replaced by cool and clinical, and it seems like none of this is bothering her at all. She's always looking stone-faced and quoting facts to him like miscarriage rates over age 40, or overall, and how one out of three really isn't that bad, and blah blah blah blah blah like he's some kind of uneducated freakin' idiot who don't have the advanced education or deductive skills to just_ get over it_ like she has.

Then he wishes she'd switch back to pity, 'cause at least that's better'n realizin' he was probably right about her in the first place. In the _very_ first place. Cold hearted. That's what. Sure, when things are goin' great and everything's just perfect and peachy, then sure, she can be sweet and nice and loving, but soon as something goes wrong? Her true nature comes out - ice queen city, that's what.

Never mind that for most of the time he's known her, "perfect and peachy" probably hasn't described their life. No one ever called bein' trapped on that rock perfect and peachy. Or gettin' shot at or getting' nosebleeds or livin' with a buncha goddamn hippy freaks. And during all that's when he figured out she wasn't no ice queen. No, never mind that. What pisses him off now is that, let's face it, his kid just died. Died. Dead, dead, dead, and Juliet's goin' around acting like it's some kind of statistical blip on the medical radar. Like the fact that Rachel's probably gonna need braces, and Jimmy's probably gonna need glasses – _these things happen, don't worry 'bout it none_. Fuck you._ Fuck you._ Our kid just DIED.

He remembers back on her birthday, her pissin' and moanin' over not bein' _important_ anymore. Important. That's what she wants? 'Cause this life? This life that's about a million times more than he coulda ever dreamed of having? This isn't good enough for her 'cause here she ain't _important_. Like that fuckin' matters ANY.

So maybe he shouldn't of roughed that kid up the other day, and maybe Dolan shoulda put a warning in his file, but instead of Dolan punishing him like he deserves, Dolan's wife brings over casserole. _Casserole._ Same thing Mrs. Dawkins keeps bringing over. Oh, yeah, your cheesy baked dish is gonna help out so much. I'm grievin' over a dead kid, but, hey, this is delicious, so let's just forget all that. Like any kind of baked dish got any kind of magic in it, and never mind his baked ziti recipe, that comes straight outta a cookbook anyway.

This morning when he found out Miles was the one that spilled the beans to Dolan, and Miles has the gall to say . . . well, James won't even repeat it in his head. That chinky-eyed Asian deserves every single bit of pain coming his way and it's been a long time coming, about seven years in the making. Punching Miles in the face felt so so so good. Never mind that two of James' knuckles now look like they'd fit better on Fred Flintstone. Never mind that the rest of his hand's already turning blue. Never mind that. Punching someone across the face felt just right. Too bad it had to be Miles, but then, what are annoying-as-hell friends for, anyway?

* * *

><p>Now he's gotta stand here at this ridiculous jazz concertdance/fundraiser event, and he only took the shift 'cause he ain't got any desire to go home and get some kind of medical lecture from his heartless fake wife. So he's gotta stand here in the same damn place they got to hear that Dom DeLuise-lookin' goof sing not even two weeks (or a whole lifetime) ago. Officer LaFleur's on duty here, in case anyone tries to get in without a ticket, and who the fuck'd try to crash this lame shindig anyway?

There's some dancing, some lameass associate professor he recognizes dancing with his wife. The band's playing old Sinatra tunes (and this ain't even jazz is it? Not the cool stuff anyway). "The Way You Look Tonight," in fact, and the goofy prof mouthing the words to his wife.

_Yes you're lovely, with your smile so warm_

_And your cheeks so soft,_

_There is nothing for me but to love you,_

_And the way you look tonight._

And blah freakin blah blah blah, what a crock of miserable horseshit. Who _ever_ feels that way? And, besides - the missus? She don't even look that great. This is what she looks like dressed to the nines, and it must do something for cheesy professor dude, but hell if James can figure out what. She ain't nothin' to write home about, but he supposes he's always had high standards.

He fixates on his hand, flexing the fingers out. There's another reason not to go home tonight. He'd get the medical third degree from Dr. Cyborg. He curls and uncurls the fingers, making a claw, flattening it out, shaking it up.

"You doing OK, James?" Doc B's somehow snuck up on him. Didn't know he was here tonight.

"Yeah, fine. Just slammed it in a car door," James lies.

"I . . ." Doc B looks closely at his hand. "I didn't even notice the hand. I mean, I saw you the other day, and tonight, too . . . You look like your dog just died."

"We don't got a dog," James answers. _Why can't everyone just leave me the fuck alone?_

"And you're sure you're . . ."

James cuts him off. "Fine, Doc. Just fine and dandy, OK? And I ain't here to chit chat."

Doc B responds gracefully. "Well, you can always let me know if you need anything, son."

"I ain't your son," James growls. He stalks off, banging shoulders with the older man. Doc B loses his grip on his wine glass. James, stalking toward the entrance, hears it shatter on the floor. That'll teach the old faggot (and never mind the guy's married) to mind his own fuckin' business.

"Hey!" calls James' partner for the evening, some new guy. James is out the front door before the guy catches up to him.

"I'm done here," James says. "Feel free to tell Dolan I skipped out early."

"Nah, man. It's cool, I'll cover for ya. I understand. No problem."

James turns on him. He _understands_? Even this new guy whose name James hasn't bothered to learn knows his business. "You know what?" James spits. "I had it all figured out. There's a reason I never let anyone get too close, 'cause then people didn't bother to feel sorry for you all the damn time. I shoulda kept it that way. But, no. Noooooo. From the minute we crashed on that damn Island, it's all community, all the time. Everybody up in everbody's damn business."

"What the _hell_ are you talking about, man?" Officer No-Name warbles after him.

* * *

><p>His new tactic is to take as many late-night library shifts as he can. The library's one of the only buildings open real late, and they get a security guard to watch over the late-night study geeks exiting into the mildly threatening Ann Arbor night. It's perfect. A one-man job, so he don't got to chit chat with no one. Way on the other side of campus from security HQ, so even if that uppity Asian gets a mind to come check on him, he'll think again. Plus, the shift gets James home after midnight, so he don't gotta put up with the robot ice queen. Then when the morning comes, the ice queen's too busy getting the rugrats dressed and fed and washed and ready for the day, she don't got no time to bother with him.<p>

He takes five straight nights of library shifts. On the sixth, Dolan tells him no go. "I think it's time you go home, Jim."

He considers stopping by a bar on the way home. Actually sits in the parking lot for ten minutes, watching the sad sacks go in and out.

Instead he makes it home early, on time for dinner for once. This used to earn him a big smile from Juliet and often enough, a deep kiss with the promise of more to come. Today it earns him a snappy, "You're home early. I didn't make enough to feed you. There's PB&J in the fridge. Make a sandwich if you want to join us."

Rachel and Jimmy, at least, are happy. They want him to pick them up, twirl them around, tickle them. "Again!" and "Again!" and "Again!"

"You can put them to bed tonight, too," Juliet snits, and then she goes to lock herself upstairs in her stupid little office.

After the kids are in bed, James allows himself a drink. He wants something hard, and pulls the rum bottle from the liquor cabinet. The bottle's practically empty, though. How can that be? He _just_ bought this. Must be an old one. He rattles through shelves looking for the new one, and maybe he's losing his mind. There's barely half a drink left in this bottle. So, he goes for a beer and another and a third.

Four beers in, he allows himself to wallow in self-pity. Goes back to find that missing rum. No luck. He slams down the bottle. It shatters, and a tiny glass shard opens a cut on his forearm. He winces and slaps his free hand across it to stop the bleeding. It's not too deep, and not too bad but, Jesus! It stings and is a bloody mess.

The crash has the added disadvantage of drawing Gordon Gekko out of her lair. "Everything OK?" she asks.

"Bottle fell," he answers. "Cut myself."

"Does it hurt?"

"Of course it hurts. I fuckin' cut myself. Whaddaya think? It doesn't hurt?"

She nods. "Pain is the body's way of telling your brain to stop what you're doing."

There's probably about eight unstated meanings in what she said, but he don't need a hidden-meaning medical lecture right now. "Well thanks for the info, Doc," he snarls. "Sorry I can't stay around for your slide presentation. I'm sure it'll be fascinating."

She bows her head, and for once, seems to soften toward him. "All I'm saying is that pain is part of being human."

He sees an opening. They can talk about this. They can get through it. "Do you think . . ." he starts. He swallows the lump in his throat. "Do you think she felt much pain? Any?"

Juliet purses her lips and cocks her head to the side. "Who? Your moth . . .or, Oh. _Oh_," she practically gasps. There. A crack in the façade, but then, James can actually see the shade being drawn over her face. Softness and pain with a hint of confusion being replaced with cool, clinical detachment. "No. I doubt it. Pain sensors really aren't operative until after sixteen weeks, so, no. Probably not."

His heart sinks. What was he expecting? A hint of emotion, maybe? "Great," he says. "Great to know. I _so appreciate_ your valuable professional opinion. Thank you for taking the time to share it with the rabble."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"Means there are some of us who actually experience human emotion. So you know what? Pardon moi, for just bein' a grieving dad. Must be nice to be so fuckin' clinical and not have any feelings about it."

Almost immediately, he's staring at the floor, at the broken bottle, and the side of his face _hurts_. It happens so fast it takes his brain a second to process. What . . . happened? Shit. Shit, she just slapped him . . ._hard_. He didn't even see it coming, was spun around staring at the floor nearly the moment the word were out. Jesus, she's fast. She's kind of fucking scary.

Or not. She just showed that first hint of emotion he's been searching for. He straightens up, rubbing the side of his face, ready to apologize, ready to reach out to her.

"You should be thanking me," she spits at him.

"Thanking you? For _what_?" Nah, screw apologizing. Screw reaching out. If she ain't gonna meet him halfway, then fuck it.

She shakes her head, refusing to answer him.

"Nah, come on. Out with it. Pray tell, what do I have to be so thankful for, oh wise one? All that money? My idea wasn't it? Those two little ones?" he points at the ceiling. "Seem to remember bein' there at the creation, sweetheart, that ain't all you. So what? Thank you for _what_? For our perfect little picket fence suburban life? Well, thanks. Thanks a million. Just what I always wanted. Stupid neighborhood potlucks and preschool drop-offs. Fan-fuckin'-tastic. Life's just grand."

"Exactly. Exactly right," she says. "You know what? Something horrible happened to you at a formative age." He snorts. Great. Let's get right back into the professional psychobabble, you emotionless, scary bitch. She continues, "And guess what? It gave you an excuse to be an asshole. Your whole life you've lived off that. You've felt free to be rude and mean and arrogant and despicable. But, guess what? All of a sudden, life's going pretty good for you. No more excuses. And maybe you're rude and mean and arrogant and despicable because that's _just who you are_. Maybe it has nothing to do with what happened to you. It's just you. Well for a little bit, you don't have to worry about it. Something else horrible happened to you, and you've got your excuse to be an irredeemable asshole back. You're welcome. I'm glad I could help out."

Does she really think that? That at his core he's despicable? It's how he feels about himself, but he always thought she didn't. He's been believing in himself because _she_ believes in him, and it turns out she doesn't? She's known all along what a miserable excuse for a human being he is?

"Fuck you," he practically whispers. "You don't know me. I never let nobody know me." Never mind that there are two people in this world who _do_ know him. He punched one and the other slapped him in some sort of facial pain circle of hell. Never mind that. "Don't pretend you know me," he whispers.

"I'm not pretending."

"Oh, that's right," he raises his voice again. "That's right. You read my file. So stop fucking pretending you're some kind of magnanimous, healing goody too-shoes. Only one of us here ever planned to kidnap pregnant women." And never mind getting Charlie to scare the shit outta Sun. Never mind that.

She steps up to him. Close enough that he can see unshed tears. Good. _Good._ "Don't you dare throw that back at me," she says.

"Oh, so your past is off-limits, but mine's up for discussion?"

She turned on super-creepy Others voice about three minutes ago, but somehow she dials up the calm creepiness. "I did that for a reason. I was desperate. Desperate to get back home. I wanted to see . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, your sister. Sorry that never worked out for ya. Sorry ya got to settle for me to hold your hand through the rough patches instead a her."

"_What?_ Why would you even say that? I miss her, OK? Can't you understand that? It doesn't mean I wish I had her instead of you."

He snorts. "Funny. You were singin' a different tune in the hospital."

Her jaw drops. "Are you kidding me? Are you _serious_? I wasn't even coherent."

"Yeah, well, there ya go . . . your subconscious letting the truth out."

"I don't. . ." she falters a bit, she's not talking in Others voice now, and a few tears slide down her face when she blinks.

Great. He made her cry. It felt good a few seconds ago. Now it feels slimy. The things he's said. He _is _an asshole. He is, and she's right about it. He crouches down to pick the shards of bottle glass off the kitchen floor, because he can't bare to look at her while she cries. He sees the cut on his arm, the bruises on his hand. He thinks about Miles' breakup with Claudia. He overreacts to little things and lashes out violently to big things.

Just like his dad had.

Jesus. The thought makes him sick, and he sinks all the way to the floor.

"Jesus," he breathes.

Juliet crouches down beside him. "Are you OK?" she whispers. He can't speak. His mouth is so dry. "James? You look sick." She puts a hand to his brow, traces her fingertips down his cheek. "Are you OK?" she asks again.

He takes her hand in his and holds it to his cheek. It feels so good. How come he hasn't reached out to her before now? These past few weeks? How come he didn't just go to her and say he needed her and needed her help? How come he had to let it all out like this? Is this really who he is?

"I'd never hurt you. You know that, right?" he pleads.

She looks confused for a second. "James, this is not your fault. You did _not _hurt me. I'm OK. And I know you don't want to hear this, but we probably should have at least expected this. I'm 40."

"No, that's not what . . ." he starts. That's not what he means. But, no. No. He is better than his father. He _is._ He just has to be. "I'm sorry I ain't handled this well. I make mountains outta molehills, right? So, whattaya expect when I come to a real mountain?"

She looks down at the floor. "I've been trying to make a molehill out of a mountain. I think that makes us a good pair."

He smiles. He delicately picks up a few shards of broken glass. "All this just cause I got mad at a bottle for bein' practically empty."

She purses her lips. "Sorry. That's probably my fault." She turns to unclip the child lock on the cabinet under the sink. She pulls another bottle of rum from behind the Windex and dish detergent. "I finished that one, and moved on to this one." She holds it out to him, and he can't help but chuckle as he takes a sip. All this time she's been drinking her sorrows away? And not telling him? God, the two of them, hiding away their pain. What a waste of time. "Sorry I got on ya about your sister. It hurt my feelings when you were askin' for her in the hospital."

"Hey," she reaches for him, and he leans in close. "I miss her. I will miss her until the day that I die. There's nothing you or anyone can do to change that. There are times when I miss her more than ever. Things I wish I could share with her. Wish she could be here for. When the kids were born. Or, when . . . when . . . " her voice catches, but she recovers, "when they _aren't_. But that has nothing to do with you. I'd rather be here with you than there with her."

"Really?"

"Well, I'd rather be somewhere with both of you, if we're being perfectly honest, but I've learned my lesson on hoping for too much."

He pulls her close, and she rests her head against his chest. They sit on the kitchen floor for a while, with him rubbing slow circles at the small of her back. Finally, he says, "We got a pretty damn good life. Ain't perfect, but way more than I could of ever hoped for."

She tilts her head back to look at him. "So you don't hate our white-picket-fence suburban life?"

"Wish I did," he says. "I hate havin' so much to lose."

"You won't lose anything," she vows. "Not if I have anything to say about it."

And there it is. That fierce love he blabbered on about in their "wedding" vows. It can be pretty scary when you're on the wrong side of it, but the best thing in the world if you're on the right side of it. He's on the right side, and so are those precious babies upstairs. His heart swells as she takes his hand to stroke the back of it.

She says, "I've been dying to ask. What happened to your hand?"

His heart sinks, 'cause he either has to admit what he did or lie to her. "Nothin'. Slammed it in a car door."

"Mmmm. Maybe you should take the car door some donut holes. I understand it likes those."

**There was all this other stuff (in my head that is) with him going to apologize to Dr. B. He would say that when Dr. B called him "son," he took it the wrong way b/c of what happened to his parents. Dr. B would misunderstand, thinking James' parents ****just**** died, and that was why James was being such a nightmare. James would have to explain that, no, his parents died when he was a kid, and then have to explain the real problem, "my wife had a miscarriage," which would be the first time he's able to actually say it/talk about it, and sort of be the end of the healing process for him. So. Imagine all that.**


	14. Chapter 14

**I'm really on a roll! Or, actually, trying to get this all down before it fizzles out.**

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><p><strong>March 1982<strong>

The kids really put him through his paces tonight, making every damn thing a battle. Low point was when Jimmy pooped in the tub. Because James believes in killing two birds with one stone, both kids were in there, and once the little bastard dropped his load, Rachel squealed and shrieked, hopped out of the tub, slipped, and busted her rear. While James tended to her, checking for blood, broken bones or whatnot, Jimmy took the opportunity to pick up the turd in the tub. SONOFABITCH.

He pulled Jimmy out, too. Barked at the two of them to stand still. They were wet and slippery and he didn't need any more full-body crashes. He drained the tub, and decided to hold clean-up off until after they were in bed.

_Jesus, good thing there's just the two of them_, he thought, followed three seconds later by: _Wait. I don't really mean that. _And three seconds after **that**:_ Actually, I kind of __**do**__ mean that_. Followed by a wallop of guilt, followed by a whining "Daddy, how much loooooonger do we hafta stay stiiiiiiiiiillll? ? ?"

He snapped to, shuffled them out of the bathroom, shut the door behind them, and then began the turmoil of getting them into bed. That only took forever, and then he had to clean the shit out of the tub. Followed by a stiff drink.

He's beat, and would've been in bed an hour ago, except when Juliet left here this evening, she actually sashayed out the door, and she winked at him. She whispered in hisa ear, "Notice the shoes? I promise to keep them on and stay awake this time." Took him a second. She's wearing a different, new dress, but those same high heels from that opera doohickey back in the fall. And, hot damn, looking good.

"Keep your hands to yourself, Oda Mae," he ordered Miles.

Miles rolled his eyes. Juliet stage whispered behind the back of her hand, "There's a gonna be a girl there he's interested in. I'm just a conversation starter."

"The girl has a name, _Juliet_," Miles huffed. "It's Mae."

James barked a laugh. _But . . . wait. How'd Juliet know about this? Why'd he tell her first? And _. . . he thinks about the fall, and the heartache over Claudia, and, no. He's learned his lesson. "Have fun, you two."

"Juliet's hoping to get a chance to brush up her Korean," Miles announced on the way out the door.

Juliet turned back, leaned down to hug the children. She stood up and kissed him. "Have fun tonight," she said. Then sashayed out the door.

He can wait up for that, yesirreebob. In fact, he's let himself into her office to avail himself of a stapler. Might as well finish up some of the paperwork he's brought home with him.

Under the stapler is a manila file folder labeled "LYLE BRADY." Huh. That sonofbitch. She's got to meet with him next week. Huh. He decides to look. He'd like to say his motives are entirely selfless, that he's only interested in what she's got to talk to sleazy Lyle about. Except the truth is, he has an ulterior motive. Most (all) of what she goes on about, tech stocks and drug trials and etcetera . . . it's all way over his head. He's cool with that, figures she's got it all under control, but at the same time, he wonders if he can impress her. He can spy on what she's got to talk to Lyle about, then he can talk to her about it, like he was thinking about some of this shit, and she'll look at him, impressed that he'd have the same insights she has, and she'd never guess it's just 'cause he spied on her file.

So he opens it, expecting to see an agenda for this week's meeting laid out there. He expects to see a list of buys and sells, paperwork backing up her choices, maybe a few newspaper clippings. Instead he sees what he recognizes, through his professionally trained security eye, as a surveillance report. It's half a decade old, but it's a surveillance log, and the "Federal Bureau of Investigation" stamp at the top makes James' blood run cold. Underneath that are pages of filings from the Securities and Exchange Commission.

James thinks he might be sick. The Feds are on to Lyle? What does that mean for the LaFleurs? Do the Feebs know how Lyle hands out fake socials in exchange for higher commissions? Is this it? The other shoe dropping? When their scam is exposed (the fake SSN scam, not the time traveling insider info scam), will they take his children away from him? Sweat breaks out on his forehead.

How come Juliet hasn't said anything about any of this? A giddy fuse of adrenaline sparks at his brain. Fight or flight? Do they have time to pull out the money? Enough to get out of here? Where can they go?

He's so consumed with worry and plotting that he misses Juliet's reentry into the house. Misses the front door closing shut and keys being tossed onto the kitchen counter. Misses her footsteps on the stairs. Misses the door to the office being pushed open.

She clears her throat. She smiles at him with her head cocked to the side. She's pulling out her left earring. "Good night with the kids?" she asks.

He doesn't answer. "What's this?" he asks in a thin voice. He holds out the folder.

"Nothing," she snatches it away from him and tucks it under her elbow while pulling out her other earring.

He knows her guilty look. He knows she's lying, and his alarms start up again. _OK, we can take enough to get set up somewhere. I can con my way into some job somewhere, anywhere they won't find us, and the money'll just have to last._ "They're on to us?" he asks.

"What? No. What would make you think that?"

"What's all that about, then? Don't say 'nothin'. Do_ not_ lie to me."

She purses her lips then leans against the doorframe. She crosses her arms in front of her, accentuating her cleavage, and if that's some kind of distraction tactic or . . . He blinks, shakes his head, and looks away. "What is it?" he presses.

"I'm getting control of our finances," she declares. "I'm tired of that man having anything to do with our money, and I'm taking control."

"I ain't followin'. What is all that stuff? How'd you get it?"

"Terri Dolan's brother's with the FBI."

"Terri Dolan? Who the fuck is that?"

"She is your lieutenant's wife," she says, making it very clear that he should also probably know who his boss' wife is, but, well . . . that kinda brownosin' ain't really his style. "She was very kind to me back in the fall, and we got to be friendly. We spent a lot of time talking. I happened to mention Lyle, she said the name sounded familiar, and . . . well . . ." she waves the folder at him.

"And it don't concern you none that our broker's being looked at by the feds?"

"They were looking at his brother, not Lyle. His brother dodged the draft. Apparently took a lot of money over the border, too. So, Lyle, living up here, so close to our great northern neighbors . . . I guess they thought he'd give them a lead on the brother."

"And?"

"Turns out he doesn't know anything about where his brother is. They closed the investigation, at least the part that concerns Lyle, two years ago."

"Still ain't followin' what this has to do with anything."

She opens the folder and holds out a piece of paper. "Under surveillance, Lyle was seen multiple times with a woman not his wife." James looks at the FBI surveillance log. Juliet continues, "His wife has money. Or her family does, more accurately. If she divorces him, Lyle will be left with nothing." She hands over an SEC filing.

"Okay?"

"So back on my birthday, you got my mind turning. Remember? How at this meeting coming up next week, I was supposed to go waddling in and play on his heartstrings and get him to hand over control of our finances?" He nods. "Well," she waves her hands down her body, "that's clearly not going to work."

"Nope," he agrees, letting his eyes follow her hands. Goddamn, she looks good tonight.

"There's more than one way to skin a cat. I have a feeling Lyle will do anything to keep his wife from finding out what I know."

"Shit," he whistles. He ain't sure that's such a great idea. He explains, "Lyle's got information on us that he can just turn right back around. You know, 'You tell my wife anything, I tell the feds about your fake identities.' Then where'd we be?"

She shakes her head. "That implicates him as much as it does us."

"Couldn't ya just go back to the original plan? Like stuff a beach ball under your shirt or somethin'?"

She glares at him. Not that he expected anything less.

"So, you're sure it's gonna work?" He's uneasy about anything that could jeopardize their cozy little life.

"You're asking if I think I can take a folder full of damning information and use it against a shady character to get him to do what I want? Why, yes, I believe I can."

He turns that bit of information over in his mind, leaning back his head to stare at the ceiling for a few seconds until he catches her meaning. When he does, he shakes his chest and shoulders in a small, silent laugh.

She adds, "Heck, maybe I get to know him a little better, and I'll find out he's not so bad after all. Then I'd fall madly in love with him." She walks toward him.

He stands to face her. "Like that'd ever happen."

"Indeed," she murmurs at him, and he places his hands on her hips. She rests her head against his shoulder.

"Promise me you got this under control," he says in a voice that's half rough command, half desperate plea.

"I've put a bunch of cash away. Enough for us to start over somewhere if it comes to it. We just start over again. We've done it before. But this will work. I know it will. Trust me."

He takes a deep breath. She presses closer, and begins tickling his neck with his nose. "Stop tryin' to butter me up," he grumbles.

"Hmmmmm?" she asks, sweetly innocent, tucking her fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants. "Trust me on this," she instructs. "Please. And hurry up, these shoes are really hurting my feet. If you want them to stay on, then you'd better get going."

This is _**definitely**_ a distraction tactic, but a good one.


	15. Chapter 15

**ALTERNATE ENDING**

**This is what I planned for the ending from a very, very early stage. There is even a hint of it in CH 1 of the original story (when I thought this was going to be a one shot. heh). Anyway, I chose that more epilogue-y ending just as a way to show what happened to everyone. I sometimes still think this one here was the way to go.**

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><p><strong>1986<strong>

He has to fight to keep an appropriate tone to his voice, because this part he always finds ridiculous: "And they lived happily ever after. The end." He shuts the book, fighting not to roll his eyes.

She sighs happily, which means she didn't catch his disdain for another in a long line of stupid nonsense fairy tales. It's not that he doesn't want her to be happy, and she loves this crap, it's just . . . she needs to grow up not believing in this horseshit. He made his living offa women who believed in white knights riding to the rescue, and it's just not true. No such thing as a white knight. Doesn't exist. She needs to know that. She needs to know that this is mostly a bunch of ridiculous, made-up BS.

"Daddy, can I ask you a question?" _Daddy._ She calls him this when she wants something from him.

Shit. He also doesn't want her growing up jaded and cynical. Juliet always says to not worry about it. _Stop obsessing_, she'll say. _She'll figure it out on her own, and stories won't matter as much as setting a good example for her_. He's always suspicious that by saying that, Juliet's just angling for him to do something romantic for effect. Which he won't do simply on principle.

"Go ahead, princess." And, see, why does he call her that? Isn't that what he wants to avoid, that lame princess mentality? But, seriously, what else is he gonna call her? He should stick with 'Half Pint' only. Or maybe drop the nicknames altogether. Right.

"Do you believe in love at first sight?"

Easy one. "No. Absolutely not."

She sighs heavily, offended at his lack of romantic sensibility. "Daaaa-addd." She prepares to lecture him. "Do not tell Mom that."

"I think she's already well aware."

Another heavy sigh. "I think it would be_ so magical_." James has to fight an urge to make a Miles-style fake-vomit sound. "When I meet my true love, _I'll know_. That's the way it works. You just get a feeling about someone, and you know. That it is your dream guy."

"That's how it works, huh?" In the mind of an eight-year-old girl, maybe. "What about 'don't judge a book by its cover'? What about that?

She scoffs.

He tries, "All right, then. Maybe it'll work that way for you. More power to ya. Just don't think it's the only way. Then you're closin' yourself off to a whole world of guys." Wait. Is he telling her there's tons of guys to . . . to, what exactly? Sonofabitch. Maybe he should stick with the fairytales and skip trying to teach her otherwise.

"Well, you do believe in happily ever after, right?"

"See, now, there again, it's complicated."

She giggles, and he senses that she thinks he's teasing her. He supposes he sort of is.

"I'm tellin' ya. You wouldn't believe how many trips to the hospital involved in happily ever after." _Four? Five? _He's lost count.

She wriggles uneasily and starts picking at her bedspread, because she knows where this is heading.

"Would be less if someone I ain't gonna name didn't smash things over their brother's head. And I guess another hospital visit next week just to get his stitches out." _That will be five._

She changes the subject, ever so slightly. "Or if you didn't hurt your knee chasing after that guy who ran the stoplight."

_No, six. _

He grunts.

"Or remember when Uncle Miles got the hives?'

Hell, yes, he remembers that. Miles, itching and swelling, having trouble breathing. James, antsy in the waiting room: _Please forgive me for every bad thought I've ever had about him, please let him be OK, I'll never call him Oda Mae again. Or, maybe Bonzai. Bonzai and Donger. I can't drop Oda Mae._

_So, what, that makes SEVEN? Seven trips to the hospital:_ They lived happily ever after, and were thankful for health insurance. And living near a major medical center. THE END.

He tells his daughter, "Happily ever after's what they say. What they mean is all sortsa trips to the hospital. Or, for instance, I'm still surprised that happily ever after apparently also involves tons of sports practice. Life ain't a fairytale, sweetheart."

"Dad," she admonishes. "That's terrible. When I grow up, I'm going to marry someone so much more romantic than you." She sticks out her lower lip. "Why did Mom marry you anyway?"

"I ask myself that very same question all the time."

She narrows her eyes at him. Maybe she has more to say.

"Listen, here's the deal," he tells her. "I think fairytales are boring. Who wants all happy all the time? That's lame. You and me gotta be readin' better stuff. Back to Little House or Narnia or something. Not this princess happily ever after mumbo jumbo."

"All right," she agrees, smiling happily.

He gets out of bed and tucks the covers around her. He kisses her forehead. "Life is good, Rachel," he says. "Ain't perfect, but it's the not-perfect stuff that makes the rest of it so good."

"Good night, Daddy," she says, closing her eyes. "Can you and Mama put your music on loud tonight? I like to hear it when I fall asleep."

"Think we can arrange that."

See? If life were perfect, this wouldn't be 1986. They'd be listening to their music on one of them newfangled iPods, not a scratchy record player. Life ain't perfect. Probably never will be. Even so, he thinks it's still the perfect way to spend a night.

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><p><strong>Yes, I realize I've threatened it before, but I really do think I am done for good. At the risk of sounding like an utter lunatic, these characters don't really live in my head anymore. I had to write out these last parts from when they still did, but now it's all out. <strong>

**Thanks so much for reading, for reviewing, and for encouraging.**

**Hey, leave a review now . . .it's your last chance to do so!**


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